


What Happens to the Heart

by Mossycoat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Original Trans Character(s) - Freeform, POC Harry Potter, Post-War, Seer Harry Potter, trying to squeeze as many headcannons as i can into one fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 33,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25747555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossycoat/pseuds/Mossycoat
Summary: With no girlfriend, no job, and no idea what he wants, Harry has decided to let life go on without him. If only prophetic dreams, demanding ghosts, and Draco Malfoy would let him.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 45
Kudos: 196





	1. The Fool

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by my favourite HP author Saras_Girl, using a formula inspired by her works: unusual professions+ elderly OCs+ cute kids+ animals= yes.  
> I'll be posting a chapter at a time, so while a WIP, it is already two thirds finished.  
> A big thank you to my beta reader Dia3012 for all your help!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fool: Beginnings, Innocence, Spontaneity.

_I can’t move_

_I can’t move_

-

Someone is knocking at his bedroom door. “Harry? Are you awake?” Hermione turns the handle and pushes her way in. “It’s nearly midday.”

Harry groans and sinks further under the covers. Hermione walks over to the window, stepping over piles of dirty clothes, and opens the curtains. In her crisp skirt-suit, hair wrangled into a braid, she looks every inch the professional.

“It’s Saturday,” says Harry, pulling the quilt over his face.

“Weekends don’t count if you don’t have a job.”

The Harry-shaped lump doesn’t move, so Hermione shrugs and flops back onto the bed beside him. He sticks his head out just far enough to see her stare up at the ceiling, dark circles under her eyes.

Hermione sighs. “I know it’s hard, it’s hard for all of us, but you need to go outside sometime.” She props herself up on her elbow to narrows her eyes at him. “Are the ghosts still following you?”

Harry nods.

“Well I’ve been doing some research-”

“Of course.”

“And it’s pretty much exactly what I suspected,” Hermione continues. “Dying and coming back has changed things. You’re like a walking piece of death.”

“Well that’s a cheery thought,” he mutters.

“Not like that, Harry. It just means they’re drawn to you. It’s like the ghost and the place they died are a pair of magnets, and they’re stuck together- but you’re a magnet too. The ghost is equally pulled between you and wherever they died, and now they’re completely untethered. Clearly some of them would rather follow you than stay where they’ve been stuck for centuries.”

Harry lets that sink in for a moment, before something occurs to him. “Does that mean Moaning Myrtle can finally leave the girl’s bathroom?”

Hermione laughs. “Maybe you shouldn’t leave the house after all then, if she’s lurking about.”

Harry decides to take her original advice, and goes for a walk. He takes precautions, pulling a Molly-knitted hat over his distinctive hair and scar. The muggle park is close to Grimmauld Place, with a large pond lined with bulrushes, and he always used to like feeding the ducks.

Drizzle finds its way past the collar of his jacket and down the back of his neck, but he’s thankful for the rain. Nice weather for ducks, as Arthur would say. Or nice weather if you want to be left alone. The park on a Saturday would be packed if it had been sunny. As it is, there’s just a man sitting on a bench by the lake, staring at his shoes, while his dog barks incessantly at him. He doesn’t look up, even as the small dog tries to bite his trouser leg, but instead its snout goes straight through. Harry comes closer, and the dog turns to growl at him. It’s a miniature dachshund, its coat a dappled grey. The man is similarly coloured, and now Harry is directly in front of him, clearly a ghost.

“Was this your dog?” asks Harry.

The ghost continues to stare at his shoes.

“Hello?”

The dog begins to tug at Harry’s own trouser leg, this time with more success. He crouches down, and twists the collar around until he could read the tag.

“Hello, Earl Grey,” he says. Earl lets go of the fabric clamped between his teeth, and begins to lick Harry’s hand. Harry picks up the dog and tucks him under his arm like a baguette. “Let’s get you home.”

-

The address engraved onto the tag is in Diagon Alley, and leads him to _‘Granny Lynn’s Fortunes: Tarot, Tea Leaves, and More!’_. The shop window is filled with notices, spelling out cryptic messages. One warns that if your name is Sally and you have a pet lizard, you need to call your mother. Another advises that if you have green hair and a birthmark on your left buttock, it would be wise to check your food for poison.

Slightly disturbed, Harry walks in. There is no bell, and the door closes softly behind him, but a voice calls “Just a minute!” from another room.

The waiting room is tiny, lined with chairs, and mainly filled with shelves displaying trinkets and odd pieces of art. On a coffee table is a copy of Witch Weekly, so old that Celestina Warbeck smiles up from the cover with all her original teeth. An old woman in a wheelchair enters through a bead curtain from the back room.

“Harry dear, do come in,” she says, wheeling herself back through. “Thank you for returning my Earl to me. He doesn’t get as many walks as he would like now that I’m older, so he tends to wander off.”

“That’s okay,” he says, following her into the room. It’s even smaller than the last, almost a cupboard, and completely dominated by a huge purple armchair. Earl is wriggling in his arms, so Harry places him on the floor. Earl leaps onto his mistress’s lap, with a surprisingly large jump for such short legs.

“Now we’ve got you here, I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you,” she says, stroking the dog in her lap.

Harry tenses. “Actually, I have to get go-”

“Nonsense,” she says. “We both know you’ve got absolutely nothing better to do, so sit down and have a cup of tea with a poor old woman, there’s a good lad.”

He nods, and hastily sits down in the imposing armchair. She reminds him of a terrifying mix of Molly and McGonagall. “Yes, Mrs Lynn. Sorry.”

“None of that Mrs-ing with me. You can call me Granny.”

She boils the kettle in the muggle way, and refuses all offers of help, fetching the mugs and tea bags from cupboards built lower for her to reach. Meanwhile, Harry continues his study of the room. On the table in front of him is a deck of what he recognises from third-year Divination as Tarot cards. Three are spread out in a small arc facing away from him: The Fool, Seven of Cups, and Death.

“So,” says Granny, plonking two mugs of tea onto the table and sweeping the cards out of the way. “I see death is on your mind.”

“I think its on everyone’s. We all lost people.”

“You more than most, but that’s not what I meant.”

“The ghost thing,” he concludes. “Does everyone know?”

She shakes her head. “The whole Wizarding world is in a flap trying to work out why none of the ghosts are staying put anymore, but the no one’s connected the dots just yet. I’m sure the Ministry have their best and brightest on the case,” she says, flashing a wry smile over the rim of her cup. “So you have at least another decade before they cotton on.”

“So how did you know?” he asks.

She gestures to the room, candlelight glinting off a crystal ball in the corner. Harry understands. Granny might match Trelawney in their taste for chintzy furniture, but it seems in all other areas they are leagues apart.

“Sorry, I don’t I have much experience with Seers who are…” he pauses, casting around for a word that won’t offend her.

“Competent?” suggests Granny.

Harry nods with an apologetic grin.

“Don’t be too harsh on old Sybil, she has her area. She had her big grand prophecy, but the subtler arts are beyond her. I work on a smaller scale,” she explained. “We all have our talents.”

“I’m not sure I do. I’m average at a lot of things, and I’m good at Quidditch, but no impressive skills,” he says, staring into his mug.

“You’re too hard on yourself, I know that’s not true,” admonishes Granny.

Harry resists the urge to glower. “Yes, killing dark wizards, I know.”

She shakes her head. “Kindness is a skill too, duckie. You could have left Earl where he was, but you didn’t. You’re a good person. That’s something more to be proud of than killing old what’s-his-face.”

Harry smiles weakly. “I just wish people would stop congratulating me. I don’t want to be thanked for killing someone, or told how brave I am. I just want some peace and quiet.”

“I understand, but you still have to make an effort.” She gives him a knowing look. “You haven’t been doing that lately, have you?”

“No. Hermione’s been saying the same thing, and Ron’s been trying to give me space but I know he’s worried. I just…needed some time,” sighs Harry.

“Well, if you think you’re ready, I have an offer for you.” She says, placing her hands palm down on the table, and he listens to what she has to say.

Harry leaves the shop newly employed as a dog walker.


	2. Ace of Wands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to update two chapters in one day thanks to the speedy work of my beta Dia3012 (@dreamerthinker on tumblr)  
> Ace of Wands: Inspiration, New Opportunities, Potential.

_Someone is lying at his feet._

_“I can’t move,” says the man. “I can’t move.”_

-

“Mr Potter.”

“Hermione?” mumbles Harry, his eyes still closed.

“Mr Potter,” repeats the voice.

Harry opens his eyes, and jolts uprights, pulling the covers up to his neck. Narcissa Malfoy stands over him, looking almost exactly as he remembered.

“You’re not Hermione.”

“No,” she sniffs, “I am not.”

She was pale before, but now she looks like a black and white picture.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Mrs Malfoy, are you dead?”

“It appears so.”

Harry frowns. “I’m sorry to hear that, but why are you in my bedroom?”

She looks away, unable to meet his eyes. “Draco is alone, and I can’t leave him to struggle by himself, so I’m calling in my debt. I saved your life, Mr Potter. That creates a contract, and I’m asking you to honour it.”

“Of course, Mrs Malfoy, if there’s anything I can do-”

“I need you to help Draco,” she says, her eyes snapping back to Harry’s. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” he says. “But I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“He won’t leave the manor. All of society has rejected him.”

“I’ll do what I can, but I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help. It’s not like he’d talk to me, he’d probably shut the door in my face.”

“He’d do no such thing, I raised him better than that. Besides, It doesn’t matter how you do it, just that you do. I will be staying right here until I feel you’ve fulfilled your promise to me,” she says, sitting down in a chair by his bed and crossing her ankles delicately.

Harry panics. He might not hate her anymore, but he certainly doesn’t want the ghost of a middle-aged woman haunting his bedroom. “Wouldn’t you prefer to spend time with Malfoy? You said he’s alone.”

“Whenever you are not here, I will be with Draco. There’s no point me being here by myself, and I won’t follow you outside the house. My reception may not be…friendly.”

Harry’s alarm goes off. It’s the first time he’d set it in weeks.

“Look, I’ve got to go, but I’ll do my best.”

Narcissa does not move.

“Erm, would you mind?” says Harry. “It’s just- I’ve got to get dressed.”

He’s not sure if a ghost can blush, but her cheeks seem to turn a darker shade of grey.

“Of course, Mr Potter. I will see you soon.”

-

The next time he enters Granny Lynn’s shop, there is a customer. He can hear a woman sobbing in the back room, and Granny’s soothing tones trying to calm her. Earl runs out of the room to greet him, his whole body wiggling as he wags his tail. Harry bends down to rub his ears, and spends some time looking at the items on the shelves while he waits. In pride of place, in the centre of the wall, is a golden pocket watch. While there’s no physical barrier, protective magic surrounds it. The watch seems to be vibrating, making a quiet purring noise. On the otherwise plain front, words circle the edge: ‘ _For my loving brother, who always has time for me.’_

The customer exits through the bead curtain, and despite her red-rimmed eyes, gives Harry a weak smile. He finds Granny in the back room shuffling her cards. “Is she okay?” he asks.

“She’ll be just fine,” says Granny. “Only matters of the heart.”

“Is that what people usually ask about, when they want to know their future?”

Granny halts her shuffling. “Everyone who comes to me is uncertain in one way or another. I can’t offer them certainty. I will never claim to be right a hundred percent of the time- but I can guide them onto the right path.”

Harry could use some guidance. “Would you do a reading for me?”

“No need. I’ve been reading your cards for weeks,” she says.

Harry blinks in surprise. “What did they say?”

“That you’re at the beginning of something important, and the choices you make now will change the course of your life. You are about to transform, in one way or another.”

Earl flops onto his back, hoping for a belly-rub, somewhat undermining her serious tone.

“Could you be a little more specific?” he says, giving in to Earl’s demands and stooping over to fuss him.

“No,” she says. “Not today, anyway. Now take that naughty boy for a walk, or he’ll be nipping at my ankles all day.”

-

As Harry walks Earl up Diagon Alley, he thinks about Malfoy. No one could say they’re the best of friends, but he certainly doesn’t hate him anymore. He’d testified on their behalf at Malfoy and Narcissa’s trial, but it’s possible there’s still some resentment there. After all, he hadn’t vouched for Lucius. Perhaps Malfoy blamed Harry for his father’s imprisonment? Either way, a direct approach to helping him would probably not go over well. How do you help someone without seeing them? Maybe he could write a letter.

Harry stops in the middle of the pavement, Earl looking up at him in confusion.

Hedwig. In the summer after his first year, when he was imprisoned in his room and thought his friends had forgotten him, Hedwig got him through it. With a tug on Earl’s lead, he changes their direction, and heads towards Eeylop’s Owl Emporium. It’s much the same as he remembers it- cramped, stuffy, and stinking of owl dropping. Soft hoots punctuate the air like question marks.

_“Hoo? Hoo?”_

Earl attempts to hide behind his legs. Harry picks him up and strokes his head. “Don’t worry, nothing to be scared of.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” says the owner, “Some of these would have your little dog for breakfast.”

There may be some credit to the idea that people look like their pets, because this person could not look more like an owl if they tried. Their eyes are round, yellow, and luminous. Their grey hair piled on their head like a nest and just barely held in place with pins. Harry gets the unsettling impression that if they wanted to they could turn their head full-circle. Their name badge reads ‘ _Athis’_.

“What sort of owl are you looking for?” Athis asks.

“A friendly one. One that will keep someone company, but not too demanding.”

They nod. “Then I’ve got just the girl for you.” They swoop away into the maze of shelves and cages, and return with an owl riding on their shoulder. She’s large, with feathers in as many shades of brown as a tree in autumn, and deep orange eyes. She would be a very elegant looking bird, if it weren’t for the ridiculous looking tufts on her head. They stick up like a rabbit’s ears, giving her a permanent air of surprise.

“A Long-Eared Owl. Excellent for long distance delivery, an all-weather flyer, and this one in particular is a favourite of mine.” Athis extends their arm, and the bird hops from their shoulder onto their elbow. “What do you think?”

“She’s lovely,” says Harry. He puts Earl back down, so he can hold his hand out to her. She nibbles gently at his thumb, as if hoping for a treat, and his breath catches in his throat. Hedwig used to do the exact same thing.

“She’s just a year old. Healthy as can be, and a worthy companion for the hero of the Wizarding world, if I do say so myself.”

Harry holds himself back from saying something rude and uncalled for. “I’ll take her. How much?”

Athis bows. “No charge, no charge.”

“No, let me pay. If you didn’t charge every other person who came in you’d never make any money.”

“You’re too modest, far too modest, but if you insist. Thirty galleons, please, Mr Potter.”

There is no way this owl is only thirty galleons. The one nearest to him has a label on the cage for sixty-five, and it isn’t nearly so impressive as this one. He hands them the money anyway, and walks out with the most impulsive purchase of his adult life so far.

Outside the shop, he turns to the owl and says “Can you find number 12 Grimmauld Place? I’ll meet you there later.”

She beats her wings, clipping his head as she takes off, and launches into the sky. That night he writes a note, and attaches it to her foot: _‘My name is Bunny. Please take care of me.’_


	3. Page of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Page of Swords: Ideas, Curiosity, New Ways of Communicating

_Someone is lying at his feet. Harry kneels down next to him. “I can’t move,” the man says. He’s slurring like a drunk, but Harry knows he’s sober. “I can’t move.”_

-

Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap.

“I would open the window myself, Mr Potter, but I cannot in this state.”

Narcissa sits by his bed, her arms folded. At the window, Bunny keeps tapping her beak against the glass.

“Good morning, Mrs Malfoy.”

“Good morning. Are you going to let the demented creature in, or are you conducting an experiment to see if its possible for a ghost to develop a headache?” she asks, her mouth set in a thin line.

“Sorry,” he says, swinging his legs out of bed and rushing to open the window. “What are you doing here, Bunny? Couldn’t you find him?”

She holds out her leg, and Harry sees there’s a new note tied to it.

_‘To whom this may concern,_

_I don’t know who you are, or why you are under the impression that I am in desperate need of an owl- but I can assure you I am not. I have no one to write to, and if you are looking for a pen pal, I am certain you can do better than me._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_P.S. Bunny is a stupid name for an owl. She’s clearly a Beatrice.’_

Harry sighs, half annoyed and half amused. “You might want to read this,” he says, holding the letter out so Narcissa could see.

“So your idea of helping my son is to buy him an owl? I assure you he can afford one himself.”

“Well, its only part of the plan. And its not about whether or not you can afford it- it’s a gift,” says Harry.

Narcissa raises one perfect eyebrow in a way Harry has never been able to master. “And what is this plan?”

“I’m not really sure yet, but it’s coming along.”

“Make sure it does, Mr Potter, or we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”

-

It had been over a week since he’d seen Teddy, so he takes him and Earl to the park. Teddy has inherited Tonks’ metamorphagus gene, and though too young to talk, he often expresses himself through the colour of his hair. Today he’s sporting a cropped head of dappled grey to mimic Earl’s shiny coat. The ghost of a young woman trails behind them, saying nothing but keeping close.

“Do you want to feed the ducks, Teddy?” he asks the baby, looking down into the buggy he’s rolling along the path. Teddy makes a babbling sound, his hair flashing yellow for a moment. He understands a lot of what is being said to him, and Harry guesses he’ll be saying his first words in no time.

Earl runs round the edge of the lake barking at the geese and chasing them into the water. His hatred of getting wet is the only thing stopping him from following them in. Harry throws bits of stale bread for the mallards and swans, while Teddy claps his chubby hands together in delight. From the bushes, he hears a quiet click. He turns towards the noise, and a camera flashes in his face.

Instinctively, his hand goes to his wand, but he stops himself from drawing it. “How dare you?” he says, standing up from the bench. “Get out from that bush right now.”

A small man in a dark green fedora reveals himself, and scurries closer. “Would you mind answering a few questions Mr Potter? It won’t take too long. Now, would you say Teddy Lupin is like a son to you? Have you been dating since the split from Miss Weasley? How would you describe your emotional state since-”

Harry holds out his hand. “I’m going to stop you there. You have no right to bother me in private like this. Especially when I’m with my godson. I know the law, and you can’t publish any pictures of a child without their guardian’s consent, so don’t even think about putting Teddy in the Prophet.”

The man goes very pale. “Of course not, sir, I wouldn’t dream of it, sir. Have a good day now, sir. Goodbye.” He tips his hat and disapparates, leaving them alone again.

-

“Andromeda, I’m sorry about your sister.”

“Which one?” she asks facetiously, bouncing Teddy on her lap.

He’d forgotten Bellatrix was her sister too. Despite how alike they looked, Andromeda’s personality is so bright as to outshine the similarities completely.

“Narcissa. I heard she died recently.”

“I didn’t expect it to hurt this much,” she says, shaking her head. “I hadn’t seen her in years, and I’ve lost the people dearest to me in the world; it should be a drop in the ocean by now.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” he muses. “There’s no limit to pain. You can always feel more.”

“How very maudlin, Harry. You are right, though.” She holds Teddy close to her chest, and buries her nose in his hair. “We were very close once, you know.”

Harry nods. “I always wanted siblings.”

“Well now you have lots of them. How many Weasleys are there again?”

“I’d count, but it would take too long.”

Andromeda laughs, and changes the subject. “Do you remember Draco from school?”

Harry grips his glass tightly. “You could say that.”

“He’s invited me to the funeral. I think I want to go, and I’m sorry if this is too much to ask, but I hoped you’d come with me. I don’t think I could face it alone.”

“Of course I’ll go,” says Harry. “When is it?”

“This Friday,” she says.

“I’ll be there.”

-

The house is empty of ghosts when he returns, but Bunny’s waiting on the rooftop, and flies down to land on his shoulder as he unlocks the front door. “Are you waiting for a reply?” he asks.

He fetches a pen and paper, and sits down at his kitchen table, studying Malfoy’s letter. “What do I even say? He has a point.”

He begins to write.

_‘Malfoy_

_Maybe you don’t need an owl to deliver letters, but you could probably do with a friend. I’m shutting my windows tonight, so if you don’t let her stay she’ll freeze to death, and you’ll have to live with that on your conscience._

_H_

_p.s If you want to rename Bunny then you’ll have to admit that she’s your owl.’_

“Don’t worry, Bunny. I wouldn’t really shut you out,” he says.

She nips his ear affectionately before carrying the letter off.


	4. Three of Cups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three of Cups: Celebration, Friendship, Creativity.

_Someone is lying at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground, and Harry kneels down next to him. “I can’t move,” he says the man. He’s slurring like a drunk, but Harry knows he’s sober. “I can’t move,” he says._

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.”_

-

Tuesday begins with blissful silence. Harry wanders downstairs in his pajamas- he’s taken to sleeping fully clothed since the random appearance of women in his bedroom became commonplace- and begins making breakfast. He’s stirring scrambled eggs when Bunny knocks her beak against the window, and as soon as he lets her in, she steals a rasher of bacon from the kitchen counter.

“Morning,” he says, taking the letter.

_‘H,_

_Is the owl supposed to be my new best friend, or you? Either way, I’d rather not. Anyone this desperate to talk to me is probably up to no good. On the other hand, I have enough on my conscience as it is, so I decided to let Beatrice in rather than allow her to turn into an icicle._

_These underhanded tactics lead me to believe you’re a Slytherin. Were we at school together? The only reason I don’t think you’re Pansy is that she’d never go to all the trouble. She’s exactly the sort of person who cares a lot about her friends, but would rather cut off her own arm than say it. So maybe you are Pansy, after all. I’d say this is the sort of thing Greg would do, but I don’t think he can spell the word ‘conscience’, bless him._

_Neither are talking to me at the minute, but maybe anonymous letters are the way to go. I’d never have said something so honest if I knew who you were._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_P.S. Who are you really? What does H stand for?’_

For someone who doesn’t want to talk to him, he’s doing rather a lot of it. Then again, if his friends aren’t talking to him, he might just be lonely. Until sixth year, Harry had very rarely saw him alone. If he wasn’t surrounded by a crowd of simpering Slytherins he was flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Harry grimaces, thinking of Crabbe and his fiery end. It feels odd to think of Goyle without Crabbe, like George without Fred. They’re both alone now, and Draco is too.

Harry writes back immediately.

_‘Malfoy_

_I’m glad you’ve opened your heart to Bunny, but if you change her name to that monstrosity I will have to sue for custody. Where did it even come from anyway? At least the name Bunny has a reason._

_No. I am not a Slytherin. Yes. We were at school together. I don’t know Parkinson or Goyle that well, but if they really do care about you like you say, why won’t they talk to you?_

_H_

_p.s The H stands for Handsome.’_

-

Ron and Hermione come for dinner that night, and Harry makes curry. He’s always been a good cook- he had to be, living with the Dursleys- but he only started to enjoy it when he started living on his own. Petunia would never put anything on the table spicier than mustard, and he was eager to reclaim whatever part of his family history he could. Tonight’s experiment is Nani Pothar’s Maharashtrian Chicken curry. He’d salvaged some family recipes from a dusty cookbook left behind to rot in Godric’s Hollow, along with a few other tokens he’d restored and displayed. Fridge magnets, children’s picture books, a record player.

Ron and Hermione sit at the kitchen table drinking the wine they’ve brought, breathing in the fragrant coconut-sweet steam coming from the pot on the stove. Hermione looks tired as ever with her stressful Ministry job, but not unhappy. She’d swapped her sensible kitten heels for sandals and her suit trousers for jeans. Ron seems more grown up than ever. He’s come straight from an afternoon shift at W _easley’s Wizard Wheezes,_ having taken the job more to keep George company than need for work, but it suited him. He might spend the day testing toys and selling exploding wands to children, but there’s a gravity about him. There’s no denying he’s more serious now; eyes still full of humour, but tinged with concern.

All three of them had been offered a place in Auror training and all three had declined. It was someone else’s turn to hunt dark wizards. Harry was going to walk a dog.

“I’m not going to lie, Harry, it’s not what I pictured you doing,” says Ron

“I’m not planning to make it my career, it’s just something to do for a bit. Besides, she needs the help.”

“Is she any good?” he asks.

Hermione scoffs.

Harry turns to face them. “She’s not like that, Hermione. She’s ten times better than Trelawney.”

Ron’s face lit up. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s weird the stuff she knows. Like yesterday she told me to watch where I was going that morning, and then later I nearly walked into a lamppost.”

Hermione scoffs again, louder this time.

“Why is it I can do this-” Harry waves his hand and turns her glass of wine into milk, “And you don’t bat an eyelash, but even the idea of telling the future is ridiculous.”

“It’s different!”

“How?” asks Ron. “You’ve always been weird about it, ever since Trelawney called you ‘uptight’ or whatever.”

“That is not why. I just don’t trust people who say they can do stuff that no one else can. If telling the future is possible, then why isn’t everyone doing it?”

“Why can’t you do it, you mean,” says Ron under his breath.

“Why isn’t everyone a wizard, then? It’s the same difference,” says Harry.

She throws up her hands. “I give up. Believe whatever you want.”

“Thank you,” says Ron, “I think we will.”

Hermione takes a sip of her drink and gags, before spitting it out again. “Oh god, I hate milk.”

Harry and Ron burst into very unmanly giggles, and eventually Hermione succumbs to laughter as well.

“I see you have company,” says Narcissa.

The three of them jump, Ron and Hermione reaching for their wands.

“Hello, Mrs Malfoy,” sighs Harry, continuing to stir.

“Hello, Mr Potter. Miss Granger, Mr Weasley.” She says, nodding at each of them in turn.

Hermione forces a slightly crazed looking smile. “Hello Mrs Malfoy. It’s… good to see you.”

Ron stays silent, his mouth agape.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, “But we all have promises to keep, now don’t we?”

Ron’s face turns from white to a blotchy red. “Harry, what the bloody hell is going on? Why is there a dead Malfoy in your kitchen?”

He takes a deep breath, and collects himself. “Mrs Malfoy asked me for a favour. She’s coming round to check on my progress.”

Narcissa nods in confirmation.

“What sort of favour?” asks Hermione, suspicion clouding her face.

“That’s between Mr Potter and myself, but if he wishes to tell you I won’t stop him.”

Ron and Hermione turn to face him with identical looks of panic and confusion.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he says. “Since Mrs Malfoy died, Draco’s on his own, and she asked me to look out for him.”

“But you hate him,” blurts Ron, ever tactful.

“I don’t hate him. I mean, I used to, but not anymore.”

“So you’ve been to see him,” says Hermione.

Harry shook his head. “We’ve been writing letters, but he doesn’t know it’s me.”

“Letters?” repeated Narcissa. “So he’s written again?”

“Yeah.”

“Perhaps I was too quick to dismiss your efforts. Carry on, Mr Potter.”

Narcissa nods once again to Ron and Hermione, and walks back through the wall. Harry puts a lid on the pot and stands in front of the two people who know him better than anyone else. Hermione lifts the glass to her mouth again, studying Harry’s face too closely to notice her repeated mistake. Before it can reach her mouth Ron switches it back to wine, in one of the small gestures of love that convince Harry they are perfect for each other.

“So,” says Hermione. “Malfoy.”

“What about him?” asks Harry, feigning ignorance and turning back to the stove.

Hermione looks back down at her glass. Ron had turned it to white wine, instead of its original red. She shrugs and takes another sip while Harry lifts the lid back off the pot. Hot steam billows out, fogging up his glasses, and causing him to yelp and stumble back. Hermione splutters with laughter, wine snorting out her nose.

Ron rolls his eyes and takes the glass from her. “Maybe we should switch to water.”

-

Harry receives a reply just as he’s about to go to bed that night.

_‘H,_

_You may be right about me needing to talk, but not about Pansy and Greg. They both tried in the beginning, but I was in a state. I said some things I have come to regret, and now they are avoiding me. If you tell anyone that I said something so Hufflepuffian I will find you, kill you, etc._

_Speaking of finding you, the investigation into your identity continues. I’m almost certain you’re a Gryffindor; no one else could be so bullishly persistent. I also don’t believe that your name is Handsome, unless your parents have a particularly cruel sense of humour. If H is an initial, is it your first or your last name? That might help me narrow down the list of suspects._

_Your last letter also gave me cause to believe that you can’t be a muggleborn, as otherwise there is no excuse for not knowing who Beatrice Potter is. The last name is unfortunately shared by a scar-headed moron, but the woman is a talented writer and artist, as well as the creator of Peter Rabbit. Hence the name. I respectfully connected her new name to ‘Bunny’, but it is more than you deserved._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy’_

Harry reads the letter twice. ‘ _Scar-headed moron,”_ indeed. Harry might not hate Malfoy anymore, but it’s clear that it’s not a two way street. Still, if that had been coming from a friend, it might have counted as banter. As for the business with the owl, Harry grins a sneaky grin, and begins to compose his reply.

_‘Malfoy_

_I think the confusion came from the fact that the author’s name is Beatrix, not Beatrice. We read Peter Rabbit as a class when I was about five, but Mrs Tiggywinkle is my favourite. You’re obviously not muggleborn, and I can’t imagine there were many muggle children’s books in the Manor library, so how come you know about her?_

_H_

_p.s That’s my first initial.’_

He’s tempting fate giving away so much information about himself, but he can’t seem to help it. If Harry can forgive Malfoy, and there’s a lot to forgive him for, Malfoy could stand to forgive him back. The problem is, writing to Malfoy is beginning to seem too much like writing to a friend. His insults don’t have the same edge that they used to. Would that change, if he knew who they were directed at?

Harry fell back against his bed, and willed himself to sleep.


	5. The Hanged Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hanged Man: Pause, Letting Go, New Perspectives.

_Someone is lying at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground, and Harry kneels down next to him. “I can’t move,” says the man. He’s slurring like a drunk, but Harry knows he’s sober. “I can’t move,” he says._

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” He reaches out to grab his pale hand, but it’s cold and limp. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.”_

-

_‘H,_

_I’m embarrassed to say that I incendioed the first draft of this letter, because the language I used would make my mother blush, if she were still here to read it. The old me would say that the spelling was deliberate, as it is more refined, but I’m trying to turn over a new leaf. I’m trying to become a better, more honest person. It’s what my mother wanted for me, even if it feels like pulling teeth at times._

_In that vein, I think I owe you an apology. I think you might be Granger. She’s the only muggleborn Gryffindor with a name beginning with H, so I am fairly certain. She’s also kind enough to do something like this. If it is you- I am sorry. I acted appallingly, and I hope you will forgive me. If you are Granger, then I think you will be aware how rarely I apologise, so savour it while you can._

_As for how I know of Peter Rabbit, I’ve been reading it to my young cousin. I recently got back in touch with my aunt Andromeda, and I’ve been coming to visit. I’m actually going tomorrow afternoon. Children aren’t usually my area, but they’re the only family I have left, so I’m trying to make an effort._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy’_

This is not the Draco Malfoy he knew. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever hear Malfoy apologise in his life. The tone is so different to all his other letters that if it weren’t for the details he might think it had been written by someone else entirely. Maybe he should show this letter to Hermione, to pass along the message? Or, better yet, Malfoy can tell her himself.

_'Malfoy_

_I am not Hermione Granger. I’m also not muggleborn, though I was in Gryffindor. You should probably tell Hermione in person, though. I bet she’d forgive you, she’s nice like that._

_It’s good that you’re turning over a new leaf. I bet your mum would be really proud._

_H'_

-

Granny’s shop is empty when he arrives, of both customers and Granny herself. Earl is there, and he greets him as enthusiastically as ever. He looks into the back room, but that’s empty too. There’s a twisting flight of stairs, leading up to a second floor. Presumably that’s where she lives.

“Where is she, eh?” he whispers, crouching down to fuss the little dog, and letting him lick his face. “Is she upstairs?”

He hears a thump directly above him, as if someone’s dropped something heavy. Or fallen. “Granny?” he calls.

There’s no reply that he can hear. He begins to run up the stairs, but as soon as his foot touches the first step, they flatten out and start to move beneath him. Remembering the spiral stairs up to Dumbledore’s office, he stands still and lets them take him.

Upstairs is a small flat, comprised of one room containing the kitchen, the living room and the bedroom, and a door to what must be the bathroom. Granny is in bed, surrounded by tissues and looking sorry for herself. “Harry,” she wheezes, “You haven’t caught me at my best, I’m afraid.”

He rushes forward. “Are you okay? Are you ill?”

She waves him off. “I’m fine, It’s just a cold. These things just hit you harder at my age.”

“I’ll make you some tea,” he says, flicking his wand and setting the kettle to boil.

“Thank you, dear. I hope I didn’t worry you.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay. When I heard that noise I thought you might have fallen.”

“I was trying to _accio_ my book from the settee over there, but I dropped it half way through.” Harry looks over and sees there is indeed a book lying on the floor. “You might have noticed I rarely use my wand.”

Harry picks up the dog-eared book, and brings it to her. He hadn’t noticed, but then Hermione always said he wasn’t the most observant.

“They thought I was a squib you know. My brother, Rowan, he was the talent. We were twins, and people said he soaked up all the magic in the womb and left none for me. He didn’t care that I was a squib, though. We were thick as thieves- did everything together. Then I started having these dreams. Every night for a year I dreamt of him dying, getting clearer and clearer, until it actually happened.” She stopped to blow her nose, her eyes welling up.

Harry put his hand on her shoulder, and let her compose herself.

“I had lots of dreams after that, about all sorts of things. They started teaching me Divination, and it’s still the only type of magic I’ve ever had any luck with. I can go for months without even touching my wand,” she says.

“I didn’t realise,” says Harry.

Granny shrugs. “Most people don’t. There’s very few things in life we really need magic for, otherwise muggles would have gone extinct a long time ago.”

-

After walking Earl, doing the food shop, and buying an eclectic set of vinyl records, Harry returns home to find Narcissa and Bunny in the kitchen. He’d left the kitchen window open on for the owl on purpose, but there is very little he can do about Narcissa- she doesn’t exactly need a cat flap. Smiling at the mental image he’d created, he greets her with a wave.

“Afternoon, Mrs Malfoy.”

“Good afternoon, Mr Potter.”

“You know, I’d prefer it if you would call me Harry,” he says.

She frowns. “Very well. I suppose you may call me Narcissa.”

It feels like a small victory. Harry strokes Bunny’s ear tufts, and unfastens the letter from her leg.

_‘H,_

_Well now I’m thoroughly confused. I’d thought I had it when I guessed Granger- unless this is a double bluff. I’m beginning to doubt everything I thought I knew. I will have to apologise in person, like you say, but I’m struggling to drum up the courage. I know how hard she can punch. I did seek out Lovegood, to apologise for my role in her imprisonment, but she just invited me in for some strange homemade tea and lectured me on some rare creature she was going on an expedition to find. Crimplehorn? Snumplegrump? I can’t recall. Between you and me, that tea may have been some form of light revenge. It did terrible things to my digestion._

_Thank you for your kind words. It’s my mother’s funeral the day after tomorrow, and I’m dreading it. I’m worried no one will come. No one wants to be seen mourning the wife and mother of Death Eaters. Will you come? You might feel compelled to out of the goodness of your Gryffindor heart, and it will give me an opportunity to find out who you are. That might take my mind off things._

_She was a wonderful woman, who married the wrong man. If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here either, and that would have saved the world a lot of trouble. I followed my father into his madness, but I can’t blame him for my mistakes, though he keeps trying to blame me for his._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_P.S. Do remember what I said before about repeating any of this to anyone: find you, kill you, etc.'_

Harry twirled the pen in his fingers. There was very little he could say.

_‘I’ll be there._

_H’_


	6. Nine of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nine of Swords: Indecision, Truce, Blocked Emotions.

_Malfoy is lying at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground and Harry drops to his knees in his panic, leaning over him._

_“I can’t move,” says Malfoy. He’s slurring like a drunk, but Harry knows he’s sober. “I can’t move.”_

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” He reaches out to grab his pale hand, and squeezes tight. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.”_

_He has to be okay._

-

Thursday morning is spent in the park, and filled with mounting panic. Earl keeps doubling back to check on him, sensing something is wrong. Why did he tell Malfoy he’d be at the funeral? It sounds like there’ll be very few people there, it’ll be so easy to work out who his ‘mystery pen pal’ is. The minute Malfoy realises who’s been writing to him, he’ll stop for good. He’d called him a moron not two days ago- there’s definitely still some bad blood there.

Harry kicks up the gravel, scuffing his trainers. What stings more than anything, is that he doesn’t hate Malfoy at all. It seems too petty now, and his letters have become increasingly sincere. He’s got a wicked sense of humour that chimes with Harry’s own when it isn’t fuelled by bigotry. In less than a week, Harry’s begun to think of him as a friend. It’s a bad idea. This whole thing is a bad idea, and he never should have agreed to it. Then again, he didn’t have much choice.

He feels a stiff gust of wind, and Bunny swoops down to land on the fence. Earl gallops towards her, barking like mad, and tries to jump up at Bunny.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he says, running his fingers down the tawny feathers of her back. She rolls her head, preening, but her leg is conspicuously bare. “No letter for me today?”

Maybe Malfoy has worked out who he is. Then again, he hasn’t given him much to reply to, so maybe he’s waiting for something more.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

“Care to elaborate, sir?” squeaks a voice from his left. The man from the prophet is back, this time flanked by a tall and bearded man, and a girl about his age who’s scribbling in a notebook.

“Fuck off. All of you just fuck off.”

The girl turns red as she writes that down, word for word, but stays silent. The man in the green fedora grins maniacally.

“Now now, there’s no need for that,” says the bearded man. “My name is Wolfgang. This is Herbert, and our intern Marla. At your service.” He makes a deep and extravagant bow.

“I can’t talk right now,” says Harry, starting to walk away.

“And when would you be available?” Herbert calls after him.

-

Today isn’t his day to babysit Teddy. He hasn’t arranged to visit Andromeda beforehand, either. Nether the less, he finds himself ringing her doorbell, on the afternoon Malfoy said he’d be there. In the space of time between the chimes of the bell and the sound of footsteps approaching the door, he curses himself, his impulsiveness, and the whole Malfoy family line.

The door swings open. “Harry,” says Andromeda. “What a nice surprise!”

Her smile seems genuine, but worry lines her face.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, I just brought something for Teddy,” he says, holding up a parcel.

Andromeda steps aside to let him in. “Not at all, but I should probably warn you that Draco is here. I don’t want any unpleasantness; he’s a nice young man, really.”

“Don’t worry, I can be civil,” he says with a small smile.

In the living room, Malfoy sits bolt upright on the sofa with Teddy on his lap, holding him by his armpits and staring him at with an expression of terror. “Aunt Andromeda, I’m really not any good at-” He cuts himself off, staring at Harry with a look of blank horror. He quickly schools his expression.

Harry offers his hand. “Malfoy, good to see you.”

Malfoy grits his teeth and nods. “Potter.” He looks down at Teddy and tries to manoeuvre him onto his hip to free up his hand, but can’t get it right. Andromeda intervenes and takes Teddy from him.

Malfoy’s hand is warmer than he remembers from his dream, and his grip is firm. Now he isn’t shielded by a baby, Harry can see how much he’s changed. He’s wearing a shirt and slacks rather than a robe, white sleeves pushed up over strong forearms. His blond, almost silver, hair always used to be slicked fastidiously back. Now it hangs loose, falling into his eyes.

Harry takes Teddy to avoid looking at his former rival. “I brought something that might help with his bath time, I know you said he hates it.”

Andromeda nods. “He cries if I so much as dip his toe in the water.”

He shifts Teddy’s weight over to one arm, feeling a small familiar thrill at being better at something than Malfoy, and hands her the small parcel. She opens it, revealing a rubber duck. At first it looks clear, with a small mechanism inside. He flicks a small switch underneath and it starts glowing pink from within, then promptly fades into purple. Every few seconds it switches to a new colour of the rainbow. Teddy changes the colour of his hair to match, giggling every time.

Harry laughs along with him. “I thought he’d do that.”

“This is brilliant,” says Andromeda. “What spell did you use?”

“It’s actually muggle. If it stops working just tell me and I’ll change the batteries.”

“Batteries?” asks Malfoy, immediately looking like he wished he hasn’t spoken.

Harry thinks for a moment. How could he explain it to someone with no knowledge of muggles whatsoever?

“They store the electricity, which is sort of like their magic. Muggles put batteries in things to make them work, but they run out and you have to replace them.”

A crease appears between Malfoy’s fine eyebrows, and he nods slowly. “May I see?” Andromeda hands him the duck, and he turns it over in his hands, before bringing it up to his eye. “What does this do?” he asks, pointing to the switch.

“It turns it on and off. If you keep it on all the time it’ll run out faster.”

Malfoy flicks the switch. “Better keep it off for now then, or we’ll use up all the magic.”

Harry smiles, but doesn’t correct him.

“Thank you,” says Andromeda. “This will be very helpful.” She puts the duck down, and claps her hands together. “I’d better get started on dinner. You’ll both stay, won’t you?

“Um-”

“Err-”

“Excellent,” she says. “You boys catch up, I’ll just be in the kitchen.”

She bustles away, leaving them stranded. They sit down on the sofa, with Teddy as a barrier between them. Malfoy fiddles with a button on his cuff, and Harry clears his throat.

“I’m sorry about your mum,” says Harry.

Malfoy nods. “It’s her funeral tomorrow.”

“I know. Andromeda asked me to come, I hope that’s okay?”

“The more the merrier.” He grimaced at the unfortunate expression. “I just mean that there likely won’t be many people there, and she deserves better than that. I know you might not agree, but-”

“She saved my life, of course I’ll be there.”

Malfoy lets out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you.” He appears to steel himself before saying “And not just for that. I think I owe you a lot of ‘thank you’s. Apologies too.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?” hisses Malfoy, eyes narrowed in contempt. “Life debts are serious business, Potter.”

“I just don’t think it applies. Yeah, I saved your life- but I almost killed you too.”

“You mean the _sectumsempra_?” He waves his hand airily. “You can barely see the scars.”

Harry’s throat closes up. “Scars?” 

“They’re not bad,” says Malfoy, shifting in his seat.

Teddy starts gurgling, and Harry pulls him onto his lap. “It’s not like you to downplay an injury. In third year you milked that scratch for all it was worth.”

“You mean my viscous Hippogriff attack?”

Harry groans. “You were fine.”

Malfoy jabs his finger in Harry’s direction. “Not at first. But yes, Madame Pomfrey healed me straight away.”

“I knew it! I knew you were faking!” crows Harry.

“Yes, well, my father put me up to it.” Malfoy sighs. “I should apologise to Hagrid I suppose. At this rate I’ll never finish saying sorry to everyone I should.”

Harry rests his cheek on Teddy’s downy head. “We were all idiots back then. You were just more of an idiot than most.”

“Boys, dinner!” calls Andromeda.

“Come on,” says Harry. “Let’s see how far Teddy can throw his food.”

Malfoy’s eyes spark with reluctant mirth. “Ten galleons on him reaching the wall.”


	7. Knight of Wands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knight of Wands: Energy, Passion, Impulsiveness.

_Malfoy is lying at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground, and Harry kneels down next to him. “I can’t move,” slurs Malfoy. “I can’t move.”_

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” He reaches out to grab his pale hand, but it’s cold and limp. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.”_

_He has to be okay. He has to be._

_Clutched in his other hand is a pocket watch, but it isn’t purring anymore._

-

“It’s your funeral today,” says Harry.

Narcissa remains silent, as she has all morning. He opens his wardrobe, and takes out a dark suit. It’s the same one he wears for all formal occasions, and is probably extremely unfashionable by now, but at least it still fits.

Narcissa sniffs.

“What?”

“No dress robes?” she asks.

Harry sighs. “I don’t have any.”

She raises a blond eyebrow that matches Malfoy’s perfectly. “No? Every wizard of class should own at least one set of dress robes. Preferably a different set for each season.”

“I’m not wasting my money on clothes I hardly ever wear, and don’t even like.”

“Perhaps my Draco should take you shopping, he has quite the eye for style,” she says, inspecting her nails.

“He was wearing Muggle clothes when I saw him yesterday.”

“Really? Well, I suppose that’s fine for… informal occasions.”

Harry hums noncommittally. “Are you going to leave while I change, or are you just going to sit there and watch?”

She stands. “Believe it or not Mr Potter, I am not overcome with lust for you. I’ll leave that to your Witch Weekly Fanclub.”

She glides through the wall, and leaves him to get dressed.

-

The funeral is predictably bleak. A handful of people gather in the mausoleum, in a circle around her obsidian coffin. It’s strange to think her body is inside, when Harry had listened to her teasing and complaining just that morning. The service is short, and no one makes a speech, but a few people leave flowers. Malfoy clutches a bouquet of daffodils to his chest, before laying them on the casket. Their bright yellow colour and common nature seem incongruous with their family’s love of all things monochrome and elegant, but he supposes they must have some personal significance. He’d ask Narcissa, if he didn’t think she’d object to such a personal question. She’d probably walk through him. Harry shudders thinking about it.

Malfoy’s wearing a muggle suit, pitch black shot through with pearlescent grey, and clearly the height of sophistication. It was probably hand tailored. Harry makes a mental note to tell on him to Narcissa. Andromeda goes to put her arm around Malfoy, and lays a tasteful arrangement of orchids next to the daffodils. Malfoy lays his head on her shoulder in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability, and Andromeda whispers something Harry can’t hear.

Afterwards, Malfoy approaches him. His face looks paler than usual, purple bags dragging under his eyes, and mouth drawn tight. Now he has no flowers to grip onto like a lifeline his hands are shaking, and he rubs him thumb up and down the handle of his wand. He looks like his father. Not the man Harry met in his second year, who looked down his nose at him and wore his hair in a ponytail held in place with a black ribbon. He reminds him of the broken old man he’d seen after the battle, who’s hair hung in a greasy sheet, and slouched defeated. Malfoy is immaculately groomed, and standing tall, but Harry sees the resemblance all the same.

He’s looking at Harry too, and seems to decide something. “It’s you isn’t it? You’re H.”

Harry nods, and braces himself for the inevitable.

Malfoy sighs, defeated. “Let’s go for a drink.”

That is not what he’d expected. “Um, okay.”

“Come on then,” he says, holding out his expensively clad arm.

Harry looks at it in shock, but recovers quickly. He puts his hand on Malfoys elbow, and they disapparate. They arrive in an alley, separating themselves immediately.

“I hope you don’t mind somewhere muggle, but I’m not likely to receive a warm welcome anywhere else.”

“I prefer it, actually. Sometimes my welcome can be a little too warm.”

“Just like you to treat a little fame like a hardship, Potter.” He rolls his eyes. “At least the beer here is decent.”

The alley sits behind a quaint pub called _‘The Mare and Foal’_. The sandstone brickwork is covered in the ghostly shapes of ivy that’s since been removed, but left its mark behind.

“It’s near the Manor,” says Malfoy, as they stand outside and look up at the hand-painted sign swinging in the wind. “So I come here now and again.”

They go inside, the warmth of the fire hitting their cold skin. A few old men at the bar nod at Malfoy, one raising his glass towards him. A ghost in a flat cap sits on one of the stools, but the muggles don’t appear to see him.

Malfoy leans in close. “The regulars,” he whispers.

Harry shivers. A delayed reaction from being outside, most likely. “Are you sure you’re not a regular? I can see you in a tweed coat.”

Malfoy looks down his nose at him. “Do I look like a farmer, Potter?”

Harry makes a show of looking him up and down. “Yes.” In reality, he doesn’t look like he’s done a day of manual labour in his life.

“Moron,” breaths Malfoy, before ordering two drinks at the bar.

They carry their beers over to a table in a quiet corner of the room, and sit down.

“So,” says Malfoy, “I suppose this was revenge.”

“What do you mean?”

He leans back, attempting to look unaffected but failing miserably. “The letters, Potter. Did you want me to humiliate myself, is that it? Share them with your little Gryffindor friends so you can laugh at where the Death Eater is now?”

“No!” Harry protests. “It wasn’t like that at all.”

Draco folds his arms, trying to hide his trembling. Whether he’s shaking with anger or trying not to cry, Harry can’t tell. Maybe both. “Then what was it like?”

Harry drags his finger down the condensation fogging his glass, not looking Malfoy in the eye. “Your mother came to see me.”

“My mother? When?”

“The day after she died,” he says.

Malfoy clenches his jaw. “Potter, if you’re fucking with me-”

“I’m not! I promise.” Harry looks up. “Her ghost came to visit me.”

Malfoy stares at him for a long moment, and then slumps, looking down at the beer-sticky table. It looks like he’s decided to believe him. “If she’s a ghost, why didn’t she visit me?” he asks, voice shaking.

“She does, but I think she’s hiding. She says she’s spending most of her time with you, but I don’t think she wants you to see her.”

“But why?”

“Maybe she thinks it would just upset you,” he speculates.

“No, why did she visit you?”

Harry hesitates. “To call in her life debt. She wanted me to help you.”

“So you wrote to me out of pity?” spat Malfoy.

“No!”

He clenches his fists where they rest on the table, and then relaxes them again. “Duty then? Because of the debt.”

“Maybe at first, but then it was just because I wanted to. You’re an alright bloke when you want to be,” says Harry.

Malfoy smiles bitterly. “Damned with faint praise.”

“Come on, no one who reads Peter Rabbit to a baby can be that bad.”

Malfoy’s smile turned a little more genuine. “I didn’t read it for Teddy, I read it for me. It’s charming.”

Harry sips his beer. “I just like the pictures.”

“You would. I’m surprised you can read at all.”

“Hey!”

Malfoy laughs half-heartedly. “I’m reformed, not a saint.” His teeth are oddly perfect; it’s off-putting.

“That was low-hanging fruit.”

Malfoy smirks. “Isn’t that a euphemism?”

Harry splutters into his drink. “That sounds like something Ron would say, though he’d probably mispronounce ‘euphemism’.”

Malfoy slams his glass down on his table, in a show of mock rage. “Compared to a Weasley? I have never been more insulted in my life.”

Malfoy’s sadness is still clear in the bags under his eyes, the tightness of his jaw, but lightened by childish humour. Distraction is clearly the way forward, even if it means Harry has to provoke him. It’s not like he doesn’t have practice. “No, you’re right. He’s way funnier than you.”

“That’s just not true. He’s completely witless,” says Malfoy.

“And ball jokes are the height of comedy?” Harry counters.

“Of course not. Dick jokes are.”

Harry nearly chokes on his drink. “It’s so weird to hear you say ‘dick’. I thought you’d call them something weird and posh.”

Malfoy painted a look of false innocence on his face. “Like what? Todger? Johnson? Trouser snake?”

Harry bit his lip to stop himself from laughing. “Trouser snake? Do you thing parseltongue would work on one of those?”

“Why don’t you try it?”

Harry clears his throat. “Maybe not, I think we might get kicked out.”

“Very wise,” says Malfoy, with a decisive nod, his cheeks looking a little pink.

They drink in silence for a moment.

“You really should talk to Ron and Hermione in person,” says Harry. “I promise she won’t hit you again.”

“I’m not sure I should risk it,” he says. “She’s surprisingly strong.”

“I bet they’d like you if you just talked to them like this.”

Malfoy fiddles with his beermat, playing with it like a spinning-top. He’s never still. His fingers are always in motion, his foot constantly tapping. Harry can’t remember him being like this before. At school he was so refined, moments of silliness and drama had to break through the years of grooming and expectation. Malfoys acted like Malfoys. The war seems to have stripped away the veneer of poise and formality and left a bruised young man behind.

Malfoy shakes his head. “It’s not going to happen, Potter.”

“Don’t call me Potter, we’re not in school.”

“But calling you Harry’s so odd, and you call me Malfoy.”

In Harry’s mind, ‘ _Malfoy’_ is more of a concept than a real person. For almost ten years he’s been someone to fight, to hate, to compete with. ‘ _Malfoy’_ is not the man sitting across from him and making dirty jokes. Maybe it’s time to grow up, he thinks. Hermione would be proud.

Harry drains the last dregs of his beer. “Fine then. If I’m Harry, then you’re Draco. We’ve known each other nearly ten years, it’s been long enough.”

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Alright then, Harry.”

“Alright then. About Bunny-”

“Her name is Beatrice!” interrupts Draco.

“It’s only Beatrice if you admit that she’s your owl,” he says.

Draco jabs his finger towards him. “You paid for her, she’s your owl. I merely intervened in an act of animal cruelty.”

“Animal cruelty? Bunny is a great name, and it’s what she answers to.”

“She answers to Beatrice as well,” says Draco, putting down his empty glass.

“Well now you’ve just confused her.”

“Do you want another drink?” he asks, already rising from the table. “This is too strange to get through sober.”

Harry suppresses a grin. “Go on then.”


	8. Eight of Pentacles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eight of Pentacles: Apprenticeship, Repetitive Tasks, Skill.

_Draco is lying at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground, and Harry kneels down next to him. “I can’t move,” slurs Draco. “I can’t move.”_

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” He reaches out to grab his pale hand, but it’s cold and limp. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.”_

_He has to be okay. He has to be._

_Clutched in his other hand is a pocket watch, but it isn’t purring anymore. The broken chain pools on the cobbles, and begins to move._

-

Harry is hungover. The alarm clock is ringing, stabbing into his head like a crime of passion. He throws it at the wall, and feels a rush of sweet justice. Dragging himself out of bed and into the shower, he tries to remember the night before. It had been afternoon when they arrived at the pub, and getting dark when they left. He thinks they went to a muggle bar after that, but his memories from there are hazy. Draco had a lot he’d rather not think about, and Harry was happy to do the same. By the end of the night they were pleasantly drunk, arms slung over each other’s shoulders for support. Draco had smelled nice, and sort of herbal.

He relaxes under the hot jet of water, and tries not to think about it.

There are customers in the shop when he arrives. There’s a woman in the waiting room flicking through the archaic issue of Witch Weekly, and a man’s voice is coming from the back room. Earl Grey’s sleeping in a patch of sunlight slanting through the window, curled up like a cat.

He wanders over to the pocket watch he’d seen on the shelf. It’s definitely the one from his dream.

The man leaves, and Granny wheels out behind him. “Just wait a moment, dear,” she says to the woman, “I’ve just got to speak to Harry for a bit.”

“Hi Granny,” he says, following her into the back room.

“You look awful,” she says.

He gives her a grim smile. “Thanks.”

She hands him a mug full of amber liquid, the steam smelling of ginger. “This should help.”

He takes a sip, and it’s pleasantly warm and spiced.

“Stay for a while once you’ve walked Earl, I’ve cleared my schedule for you.”

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

“It is for me, but I know you have a lot on your mind. I can help with some of it.”

Harry nods, used to her vague comments by now. “I’ll see you later, then. Thanks for the tea.”

“You’re quite welcome, dear. Off you go, now.”

Harry is trailed by a pair of ghosts holding hands as he walks Earl, following him like ducklings. They look like a mother and daughter, the child only about ten years old and wearing an oversized rucksack. They don’t speak to him, so he doesn’t speak to them, but his footsteps feel heavier. He wonders if they died at the same time, of if they were reunited when they became unstuck.

When he returns, the customers have left, and Granny beckons him into the back room. He sits down in the big armchair, and Earl jumps into his lap. Perhaps the dog realises he needs comforting.

“Tell me about your dreams,” she says, handing him a fresh mug of tea.

Harry leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. He can’t find it in himself to be surprised that she knows about them. “Draco’s on the ground, and he can’t move. I’m holding his hand, and in my other hand is the pocket watch from the waiting room, except I think its broken.”

She looks thoughtful. “Wait there a moment.” She wheels herself through the bead curtain, and returns with the pocket watch. “Are you certain it’s this one? Not one that looks similar.”

“It’s weird, I didn’t get a good look at it, but I just knew. It isn’t purring, that’s why I think it’s broken,” he says.

“I gave this to my brother on his seventeenth birthday,” she says. “There was nothing he loved more than having his cat on his lap, purring away. She’d died a few weeks before, and he said he could never replace her, so I asked a friend of mine to enchant the watch to purr like she did. I gave her a memory of the cat sitting on his lap, rumbling away, so it would sound exactly the same.” She handed it to him, so he could get a closer look. “He never took it off; he was wearing it when he died. I would have buried him in it, but it was the only piece of him I had left.”

It rumbles in his hand. Harry traces the engraving with his thumb, and opens it to see the clock inside. Its workings are exposed, the intricate mechanisms visible. “It’s beautiful.”

She takes it back, and puts it in her pocket. “Perhaps I should keep it on me, just in case.”

“Do you think my dream will come true then?”

“It may. Our actions can always change what seems to be inevitable.”

Harry winds his hands together. “Is Draco going to die?”

“Does he die in your dream?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Then we have no reason to think that he will. However, if you would like more clarity, there are ways of achieving it,” says Granny. “I think its time we start your training.”

“Training? What for?”

Granny smiles. “To be my apprentice, of course.”

-

_‘Ron_

_Do you want to come round for dinner? Without Hermione. I need to talk about something and I know she won’t take it seriously._

_Harry’_

_‘Harry_

_Should I be worried?_

_Of course I’ll come over, is 8 ok?_

_Ron’_

_‘Draco_

_I’ve got to confess something: I used Bunny to send my own letter. Maybe we can sort out dual ownership or something?_

_How’s the hangover by the way? I feel like I’ve eaten the entirety of a skiving snack box._

_H’_

_‘Harry,_

_I see how it is. She’s my owl when it suits you, and yours when it doesn’t. I won’t have you treating Beatrice this way, she’ll die of exhaustion._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Draco_

_P.S. I feel fresh as a daisy, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’_

_‘Ron_

_8 o’clock would be smashing. See you then._

_Harry’_


	9. Ten of Cups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten of Cups: Loving Relationships, Alignment, Harmony.

_Draco is lying sprawled at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground, expression blank. Harry drops to his knees beside him. “I can’t move,” slurs Draco. “I can’t move.”_

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” He clasps his pale hand, but it’s cold and limp. He squeezes it anyway. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.”_

_He has to be okay. He has to be._

_Clutched in his other hand is a pocket watch, but it isn’t purring anymore. The broken chain pools on the cobbles, and begins to move. It starts to hiss._

-

“So what did you tell Hermione?” asks Harry, as he places two plates of the hot and garlic-heavy Bolognese on the kitchen table. The steam from the pasta fogs his glasses, and he wipes them with his sleeve before replacing them.

Ron gives a smug looking grin. “It’s nearly her birthday, so I just tapped my nose, and told her she’d find out soon enough.”

Harry opens the fridge and pulls out two ice cold cans of beer. “Quick thinking. What are you getting her?

“Merlin knows,” shrugs Ron, “But it needs to be something good after that. Do you have any ideas?”

“Normally I’d say a book, but it needs to be something you’d have to spend time on. What kind of present would you need help with?”

Ron perks up. “Maybe I’ll make something. What about a bookcase?”

“That’s brilliant,” says Harry. “Can you do woodwork?”

“Fuck no. Guess I’ll have to learn.” Ron twists his fork around, gathering up the strands of spaghetti. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“It’s nothing bad, I just don’t think Hermione will understand.”

Ron wipes red sauce from the corner of his mouth, and waits for Harry to continue.

“Granny Lynn wants me to apprentice under her as a Seer, and I think I’m going to do it.”

Ron starts to laugh, but seeing the look on Harry’s face, stops just as suddenly. “Are you serious?”

Harry nods, and takes a long sip of his drink.

“But you were rubbish at Divination,” says Ron.

“Things have changed since then,” he says. “I’ve been having dreams about the future, and its not like I was a million miles away before. I had visions all the time.”

“But I thought they were of stuff that was happening right then, with Voldemort?”

“They were, I’m just saying its not completely out of nowhere.”

Ron gestures to Harry’s scar with his fork. “So, is it… like that? Is it hurting again?”

“No,” says Harry, shaking his head vehemently. “It’s the same every time, and its of something that hasn’t happened yet.”

“What happens in the dream?” asks Ron.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. He has no idea how he’d tell Ron he’s dreaming about his former nemesis every night, or even that they’re sort of friends now.

“Okay…” says Ron slowly. “But what makes her think you’ll be able to do all the other stuff too? Like crystal balls, and tea leaves, and stuff.”

“We don’t know that I will, but there’s in harm in trying, is there?”

Ron shrugs. “S’pose not.”

“Anyway forget about me, what about you?” says Harry, pausing to take a gulp of his beer. “You’ve got to learn how make a bookcase in time for her birthday.”

Ron groans. “Don’t remind me.”

Harry places a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll help you, mate.”

“I knew you wouldn’t just leave me to suffer,” smiles Ron.

“I think it’ll be more moral support, the splinters are all yours.”

Ron kicks him under the table, and goes back to his food.

After Ron leaves, he looks at the records he hasn’t had a chance to play yet. The older man in the muggle shop had an eclectic taste, and Harry had put himself in his hands, not having listened to much besides the WWN in years. Bruce Springsteen, The Who, Leonard Cohen. He recognises some of the names, but overall was at a loss. He puts one on at random and relaxes back into the sofa. Closing his eyes, he wonders what his parents played on this same machine. He wonders what the soundtrack of their lives was, if they had a song that was theirs, if they danced to it in the kitchen. Wishes there was someone left to ask.

Lyrics filter into his thoughts. ‘ _I fought for something final’._ What had Harry fought for? Mostly, he just wanted it to be over. People call him a hero, they think he sacrificed himself, but there was a part of him that wanted to get on that train in Kings Cross Station and find whoever was waiting at the end of the tracks. The sacrifice wasn’t dying, it was coming back.

Harry shakes himself. This Leonard Cohen makes beautiful but depressing music, and it might be starting to rub off on him. He is alive. The world is saved. That should be enough. Harry thinks to himself: _Why isn’t that enough?_

His mind turns to Draco. He’s lost everything, everyone. He still found the time to visit Luna and apologise. Harry jolted upright. Luna. If there was ever anyone who’s outlook on life was refreshing, if not the most down to earth, it was her. He goes to the fireplace and flicks his wand, igniting a blaze too warm for the summer evening. Taking a pinch of glittering green powder from the pot on the mantelpiece, he throws it in. The fire turns a deep emerald, and the heat cools to something bearable. Harry kneels down and cranes his head into the flames.

“Luna?” he calls, looking up into an empty room. The lights are off, and he realises how late it is. She’s probably in bed. Cursing, he starts to stand up, when he hears footsteps.

Luna walks into the room, barefoot but fully dressed in orange and yellow polka dot dungarees. “Oh hello, Harry. I thought you might be Rufus, we’re planning an expedition you see, and there’s still so much to do.”

“I’m sorry, it’s not important. I can go.”

Her eyes get impossibly wider. “Of course not! Come through, Harry. I’ll make us all some tea.”

Harry stands up, steps fully into the fireplace, and gives it Luna’s address. Long moments later, he stumbles out of the fireplace coughing, and covered in soot. “All?”

She hums as she boils water in a saucepan; there is no kettle in the kitchen at all. “Yes, Ginny is here of course.”

Harry looks out of the window, the sky is dark blue and cloudless, the moon offering the only light. He goes to sit down at the kitchen table, and bumps into the sharp wooden corner. “Ginny’s here?”

“Sorry Harry, the pixies get very grumpy without a proper nights sleep and light wakes them up. Noise doesn’t seem to bother them though, so don’t worry about that.” She puts three mugs of Gurdyroot ‘tea’ onto the table. “Yes, she’s upstairs. I’ll just go and get her.”

After she leaves, he chucks two thirds of the mug’s contents into a plant. It shakes its spiny leaves as if shuddering. Luna is followed down the stairs by Ginny, dressed comfortably and wearing…slippers? The moment she sees him she stops, pausing on the bottom step.

“Harry? What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Luna. And you?”

She unfreezes and goes to sit with him at the table. She begins to play with her hair, like she always does when she’s uncomfortable. “Luna and I are together.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to freeze. Luna looks between the two of them, and wanders out the door with an airy sigh of “The dirigible plums need picking. They prefer it by moonlight, it tickles them during the day.”

Ginny smiles as she watches her go. “Tactful.” Looking back at Harry, her smile fades. “I’m sorry.”

Harry frowns. “What for?”

“Well, I suppose because Luna is your friend, and I should have told you. I just wanted to wait until you were seeing someone before I said anything, to make it less awkward, but...”

He grimaces. “But I never started seeing anyone. I know.”

“I’m sorry,” repeats Ginny, wincing.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Harry. “And yeah I wish you’d told me, but only because you’re my friends, and I want to know what’s happening in your lives.”

Ginny sighs with relief. “Thank fuck for that, because if you blew your lid and asked me to stop seeing her I’d have to say no.”

“Do you love her?”

Ginny looks down into the mug clasped in her hands, and smiles softly. “Yes. We haven’t said anything yet, but I think soon. She goes on her expedition in two weeks and I don’t want her to leave not knowing I love her.”

Harry’s chest aches. Not out of jealousy, or love for Ginny, but happiness. Two more of his favourite people are happy, and in love, and that was what is was really about. That was what he fought for. So people could live their lives in peace.


	10. The Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made some edits now I've got the hang of things, which will hopefully make the spacing and a few other details more readable!  
> The Sun: Fun, Warmth, Vitality.

_Draco is lying sprawled at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground, expression blank. Harry drops to his knees beside him. “I can’t move,” slurs Draco. “I can’t move.”_

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” He clasps his pale hand, but it’s cold and limp. He squeezes it anyway. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.”_

_He has to be okay. He has to be._

_Clutched in Harry’s other hand is Granny’s pocket watch, but it isn’t purring anymore. The broken chain pools on the cobbles, and starts to move. It starts to hiss. The links break apart, and where the metal snaps, a silver mist leaks out._

-

“First thing first,” says Granny with gravitas, “you need to make tea.”

“Tea?” ask Harry, blindsided. Sitting between them are two mugs of half full, still warm tea already. Still, there’s no accounting for an old woman’s idiosyncrasies or her obsession with the magical and medicinal properties of bergamot. The most confusing part is that the only time she had ever let him so much as touch the kettle was when she was ill in bed.

“Yes, it’s fundamental to the process.”

“Earl Grey, milk, no sugar?” he hedges, trying to remember what he’d seen her do.

“Not this time, duckie. We’re using the leaves- that box over there.” She points to a scratched green tin that appeared to house Garibaldi biscuits in a past life.

He opens the tin and a pungent aroma hits him like heat from an open oven. He feels his stomach flip as he remembers Draco’s hair ticking his nose as they fell out of the bar, clinging onto each other for support. He’d smelled a lot like this. Harry shakes himself off and goes to fetch mugs, changing course when Granny directs him towards small cups instead.

“We don’t drink this stuff to enjoy it, nor do we want the image distorted by the shape of the mug,” says Granny. He nods vigorously as he listens, committing it to memory. He can hear the kind smile in her voice as she continues. “Though I suppose this sort of thing is what you’re here to learn, after all.”

He prepares the tea according to her simple but thorough instructions, and places them on the table next to a book titled ‘ _Tasseomancy: When to Leaf the Future Be’_.

She chuckles. “You didn’t have to make me one.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Oh. I suppose it’s just habit.”

“Never mind, it’s probably for the best. This way you’ll have two goes at it.”

She began to slurp the tea, and motioned for Harry to do the same. Bitter leaves flooded his mouth and he froze, unsure whether he should swallow them or spit them out.

Granny laughed at him. “Just swallow them, but in the future blow on your cup every now and then and the leaves will float away from your mouth. If that doesn’t work use your teeth to filter it- it’s not elegant but it works.”

“Thanks,” he says, before blowing on his tea as instructed.

Once the strong, but not entirely unpleasant, tea was finished Granny pushed her own cup in front of him. “Swirl the dregs and tip them into the saucer then tell me what you think.”

“I really don’t remember much from doing this in school.”

Granny shrugs. “That’s alright Harry, remembering isn’t the point. You can use the book if you like.”

He moves the cup in tight circles, disturbing the sluggish green mush and yellow-brown liquid inside. He turns it upside down, lets it drain a moment, and rights it again. His heart clenches. He’s seen that shape before.

“The Grim.”

“Really?” says Granny, raising her eyebrows. “That’s unusual.”

“You’re not worried? Wait, should I be worried? Is this fortune for me or for you?”

“I drank the tea so the fortune is mine, but whoever empties the cup is the person who should read them, as the symbols depend on them to be understood.” Granny takes the cup from where he’s gripping the delicate handle and tilts her head to study it. “That is certainly the Grim, but just as Death in Tarot is often misinterpreted, these things are rarely as bad as they seem. What’s important is what the symbol means to you.”

“Sirius,” he whispers.

“And what does Sirius represent to you? What did the Grim mean when you saw it last?”

Harry furrows his brows in thought. “Family. New, unexpected family.”

Granny spreads he arms in satisfaction. “Excellent! Only time will tell how right you are, but I think we’re on the right track. Now, your turn. Try to think about what each shape represents to you, not what it’s supposed to mean.”

He repeats the process with his cup, swish and dump. There are three shapes circling the base: a snitch, a castle, and baby. At least he thinks it’s a baby, it could just as easily be a potato. He voices this uncertainty to Granny but she simply waves it away.

“If you’re instinct says baby, then that’s what it is. If you doubt every prediction you’ll make you might as well not make them at all.”

Harry’s mouth twitches into something like a smile, but his mind is busy tracing over the three symbols. “A snitch makes me think of catching something.”

Granny hums. “What else?”

“It’s elusive, you don’t know for certain where it’s going to be. Sometimes it’s luck, sometimes it’s instinct. It’s always worth it though.”

“Good,” nod Granny. “And the castle?”

There’s only one castle he’s ever known. “Home, somewhere to belong.”

Her voice is gentle as she prompts him. “The baby?”

He thinks of a flash of green light over his crib and says “Death.”

“Can you dig a little further?” she asks with sad eyes.

He thinks of Teddy. He thinks of his colour changing hair and his love of ducks. He thinks of his hatred of parsnips and his big blue eyes. He thinks of the joy and he terror that comes with holding a child in your arms and knowing you would die for them. “New beginnings,” he says.

-

_‘Draco,_

_I could use a drink. I’ll be at the same pub as last time if you want to join me._

_H’_

_-_

He sits alone in the same slightly sticky booth as last time nursing his beer and his bad mood for over an hour. Eventually Draco sidles, as elegantly as possible in the circumstances, into the opposite seat. Neither spoke at first, Harry staring into the bottom of his glass and Draco squinting at his face.

“What happened? Did the She-Weasel dump you?”

“ _Ginny_ and I broke up ages ago. Besides, she’s with Luna now.” says Harry, emphasising her name.

“You put her off men for life, I suppose.”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

Draco folds his arms. “Oh, so it’s Malfoy again?”

Harry grits his teeth. “It is when you’re acting like we’re still at school.”

“You’re the one trying to argue, I just wanted to know why I’d been summoned to a pub at two in the afternoon. And when I came out of the goodness of my heart, to make sure you weren’t having

some kind of meltdown, you act like you don’t even want me here.”

Harry sighs. Anxiety has always made him tense and snappish. “Look, I’m sorry. We probably both have some growing up to do. That’s what I’ve been thinking about, by the way.”

“Growing up?” echoes Draco, arching an eyebrow.

“Did you know that during the war, Lupin came to visit me at Grimmauld Place?” Draco looked surprised, but just shook his head, so Harry carried on. “Yeah, Tonks was pregnant with Teddy and he ran off to tell me that he was going to join us and help kill Voldemort. There was a fight, a bad fight, and he admitted that he was scared. He was scared that Teddy’s life would be worse because of him.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Draco, his voice soft.

“Up until then I’d always thought he was so wise, that he had the answers to everything. He’d taught me so much. That was when I started to realise that everyone’s pretending a little bit. Even Lupin was, even Dumbledore was.”

Draco traces a snaking pattern into the condensation on his beer glass. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone expects me to be a hero, to have answers, to know what to do. I don’t know anything, I don’t even know what to do with myself.”

“I think I get it now. Sometimes I think I’ll never grow up because I never really got to be a child. Growing up it was all about the Malfoy name. My father wanted an heir, not a son.” Draco looks up at Harry, as if daring him to say something cruel.

A small piece of the jigsaw that makes Draco Malfoy slots into place. He had the corners, and now he has the edges that make up his life. The pressure to be the best, to be perfect, resulting in him putting other children down. As if by making others feel lesser, that would make him feel better about himself. Parroting his father’s rhetoric, the words of a man he trusted, trying to be a perfect copy. Not that it worked, in the end.

Neither of them had a chance at a normal childhood. Both were groomed for a role they never wanted. When had they ever just let go? When had Harry ever done something crazy for the fun of it, and not to save the world?

Harry throws his hands in the air. “Maybe that’s it! Maybe we should just be kids. The wars over, there’s nothing to stop us, let’s do something stupid and fun just because we can.”

Draco’s grin is sly as he says “I know what to do.”

-

Broomstick-Apple-Fight, while unimaginatively named, is at least straightforward. The players fly through the Malfoy Manor’s orchard, pelting each other with fruit, until someone falls to the ground. That, or they run out of apples.

“Isn’t that sort of wasteful?”

Draco huffs. “That’s why mother never let me play it. Still, Vince and Greg and I used to come here and play it for hours in the summer when she was at her charity lunches. Barely any of it got eaten even then, and since the gardener got scared off they’re all diseased and inedible anyway.” Draco sticks his nose in the air in a gesture that while it once would have been genuine, now feels teasing. “Besides, I’ve been looking for an excuse to hit you.”

They set off into the treetops, Draco using his shirt to collect ammunition, and Harry choosing to stay mobile and pick apples from trees as he flies. The first sails past Harry’s ear, and while he laughs, a second hits him in the shoulder. Soon unripe fruit flies through the air and is met with grunts of pain and squawks of laughter. It’s all the fun of a snowball fight without the wet gloves and cold hands; the elation of Quidditch without the pressure of an audience. He’d be covered in bruises, but what’s magic for if not smoothing over the inconvenient edges of life?

He’s sweating, and from the glimpses of Draco caught between trees, the back of his neck as he hoots and speeds away, his sharp and blinding grin as he manages to attack without warning, Draco’s getting hot too. Harry pauses for a moment, the sun piercing his eyes, when something crashes into him from behind. It’s solid, warm, and heavy. Harry clings onto the fabric of Draco’s shirt as he tries to knock him to the ground and pulls him down with him. The breath is forced from his lungs as Draco lies on top of him, his own fall broken by Harry’s body.

“I win,” he says, panting.

Harry lies still, stunned by the fall and the herbal scent that the tea leaves had reminded him so much of. A bead of sweat drips from Draco’s nose onto Harry’s neck. “Eugh, get off.” He shoves Draco away and sits up. “And you didn’t win, you cheated.”

“Where in the rules did I say that? Besides, it’s actually very magnanimous of me. If you couldn’t push each other then Greg would never have won; his aim is dreadful.”

Harry studies his face now they’re close enough. “I have to admit, I’ve thought about giving you a black eye many times in my life but I never thought it would happen like this.”

Draco’s answering laugh is carefree, without any of the callous undertones of his youth, and Harry wants to make it happen again as soon as possible. “Before the war I wanted to hurt you more than anything.” His smile becomes smaller, and he lies back on the grass, watching wisps of cloud blow away into nothing. “Even a week ago I still hated you. I even hated you for testifying at my trial, but I didn’t want to hurt you anymore. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’ve had my fill, more than my fill.”

Harry frowns. “You didn’t want me to testify. Didn’t it keep you out of Azkaban?”

Draco put his arm over his eyes, shielding them from the sun and Harry’s gaze. “I didn’t want you to save me again, to be the hero again. To show how much better you were than me.”

“I’m not better,” whispers Harry. “You’ve tried to change. I just stayed the same.”

Lying on their backs in the sun, they let the silence wash over them. Soon they’ll go their separate ways to clean up and put salve on their bruises. Soon they’ll go back to their adult lives, with their adult responsibilities, and forget the innocent joy of the afternoon. Soon. But not yet.


	11. Ace of Cups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ace of Cups: Love, Compassion, Creativity.

_Draco is lying sprawled at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground, expression blank. Harry drops to his knees beside him. “I can’t move,” slurs Draco. “I can’t move.”_

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” He clasps his pale hand, but it’s cold and limp. He squeezes it anyway. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.”_

_He has to be okay. He has to be, because-_

_Clutched in Harry’s other hand is Granny’s pocket watch, but it isn’t purring anymore. The broken chain pools on the cobbles, and starts to move. It starts to hiss. The links break apart, and where the metal snaps, a silver mist leaks out. The mist rises, like steam from a kettle, and begins to form a shape._

-

“Mr Potter, something unusual has happened, and I’m almost entirely certain it’s your fault.”

Harry stays perfectly still, eyes closed, hoping Narcissa will believe he’s still asleep.

“Well then, if you’re not going to listen, I’ll just have to show you.”

The warm covers are ripped away, and the cold air startles Harry into wakefulness. He rolls over from his position on his stomach, and stares at the ghost stood over his bed. “Since when have you been able to do that?”

“Since yesterday evening, or thereabouts.”

He furrows his brows, and casts his mind back to his years at Hogwarts. “I thought only poltergeists could move things.”

She picks up the worn t-shirt he’d flung over the back of a chair instead of putting away with her thumb and forefinger, like something disgusting she was about to throw in a cauldron. “Under normal circumstances, I’d say you were right.” She gives him a disapproving look, and throws the t-shirt at him. “But I am as likely to become a poltergeist as you are to clean up your mess.”

“Are you sure you’re not feeling… mischievous?”

Narcissa’s smile is small, and he can almost see her eyes glint. “No more than usual.”

Harry sighs. He’s being sighing more than he’d like to lately. “Well, what’s one more ghostly phenomenon to add to the list.

He collects Earl for his walk, trying to make enough noise to let Granny know he’s taking him, but not so much as to disturb what sounds like an intense appointment. The bell is loud as ever when he swings he door open to step outside, and while it muffles the sound of the shutter, nothing can hide the camera flash. Herbert lowers his camera, grins maniacally, and disapparates before Harry can make good on his earlier threats.

“Well Earl Grey, it looks like you’re going in the paper.”

When he returns, the shop is quiet except for the gentle clinking and whistling sounds of Granny making tea. He unclips Earl’s lead, and follows him into the back room. Earl wiggles his whole body like he hasn’t seen he in years, not less than an hour. Granny goes back to the tea, and Harry sees she’s not using her usual tin, nor the one with the loose leaves. This time it’s a jar, and the mixture inside is a muted purple. He sits in the armchair, waiting for Granny to start talking; as usual she seems to have a particular topic in mind. She places a cup in front of him, but doesn’t appear to have made one for herself this time. The brew has a dark plum hue, so deep as to almost be black.

“What’s this?”

“My own blend,” says Granny, holding the jar up to the light. “Lavender to induce sleep, catmint to stimulate dreams, mugwort to enhance their prophetic qualities, and rosemary flowers to help you remember it. I’ve been perfecting the recipe for years.”

Harry takes a cautious sip. It somehow manages to taste both like soap and Sunday dinner. He gags slightly.

Granny chuckles. “Down the hatch, duckie. It may taste terrible, but if you want to know where this dream is leading you, this is just the thing.”

He keeps drinking. If this dream is telling him that Draco is going to die, he has to know. He has to know so he can stop it. Harry’s eyelids grow heavy. He hears the slight squeak of Granny’s chair as she wheels herself onto the staircase, and the low hum of the steps flattening and spiraling upwards, but now his eyes have closed. Harry stays awake long enough to be thankful that she left him in privacy- sometimes he flinches in his sleep.

The dream is different this time. It starts with Draco laughing. He’s leaning into the shop, midday sunshine glinting off his hair and turning it silver and gold. Every colour is brighter, every smell is stronger. Harry can feel the path his blood is taking round his body, how his pulse picks up speed. The movement jerks around him, and he sees a different face. A young witch. Her eyes are round with anger and anxiety, and the blue is so intense it spreads outwards like a beacon. She’s standing over Granny, lying on the floor next to her chair. Granny’s eyes are closed, but the same blue spills out from under the papery skin of her eyelids. The light pools on the floor, becomes water, and floods the room. It rises up, lifting Granny’s body on a wave, and covering his face until he’s drowning.

He washes up on a beach. The sand is so yellow it hurts. Two identical children with glowing eyes play together in the sand. Harry begins to sink, the sand swallowing him, and a one of the children screams. It is impossibly hot, and dark, and a deafening sound surrounds him. The vibration of it echoes through his bones. Purring. Harry clamps his hands over his ears, and screws his eyes shut. Lights begin to fill the room, reflecting again from Draco’s hair. Harry reaches out to touch it, but Draco grabs his hand, and uses it to pull him closer. Their foreheads rest together, and Draco’s skin feels cool on Harry’s temple.

He feels feverish. He closes his eyes. Draco whispers in his ear “If you save my life again I’m going to have to kill you.”

Harry wakes to a cold palm on his forehead. Perhaps that’s what had made him dream of pressing his head together with Draco’s. Granny removes her hand, and raises her eyebrows in a silent question.

“You’re in danger. I think Draco’s going to be okay but I saw you on the floor, and most of it didn’t make sense, but I think somethings going to happen to you.”

Granny’s face relaxes, visibly relieved. “Thank heavens for that.”

“What do you mean? You were on the floor, your eyes were closed, we need to do something about it.

“Don’t fret,” she says, shushing him. “I’m an old woman, Harry. Falls happen, strokes happen, it’s a fact of life. I’m not scared of death.” Granny smiles softly. “But Draco Malfoy is a young man, with his whole life ahead of him. I’m glad to hear he has time to live it.”

Harry untenses his shoulders, but his stomach still feels uneasy. “We probably don’t need to worry. Most of the dream was nonsense anyway.”

“Tell me every detail, even what doesn’t make sense- especially what doesn’t make sense.”

Harry recounts his dream, leaving out only how close he and Draco were to each other at the end. Halfway through, Granny grips the armrests of her chair, the knuckles going white. She sighs. “I think I should tell you something about my family.”

Harry waits silently, studying her face.

“I told you about my twin brother, and how he was the only one in my family who really cared for me. What I didn’t tell you, was that we were identical twins. My apparent lack of magic wasn’t the only reason my parents disapproved of me. After my brother died, he left everything to me. His money, his house, even his pocket watch. In his will he called me his sister, Lynn. My parents said that since he didn’t have a sister, only a brother, that everything would go to them.” Granny turns her face upwards, as if lost in memory. “They were rich, they could afford lawyers, and I had nothing. I stayed for Rowan’s funeral, then I took the pocket watch and ran.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry that happened to you. It’s not the same, but I know what it’s like to have your only family treat you like you don’t matter.”

Granny lays her hand over his. “Did you ever try to run away, when you were younger?”

“A few times,” nods Harry.

“It’s hard. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I ended up here and I never looked back. There’s only one thing I would change.”

A realisation sparked from the back of Harry’s mind. “The woman with the blue eyes, is she a relative?”

“I think so, duckie. My father died, and my mother remarried. She had another daughter. I’ve seen bits and pieces in the paper, obituaries, wedding announcements, new babies. I never met her, but she has a whole family now. They probably don’t even know I exist.”

-

Despite his pronouncement that Draco was going to be fine, Harry’s still himself worried. If he’s going to save Draco’s life, then it has to be in danger in the first place. Granny suggests she read Draco’s cards, if it would put Harry’s mind at ease. As soon as he leaves the shop, Harry finds himself apparating in front of Malfoy Manor’s gates. He’d caught a glimpse of it yesterday, over the high brick walls of the orchard, but only from a distance. He hadn’t been inside since the night Dobby was killed. The night Hermione was tortured, Draco refused to identify him, and Harry took his wand. That night was the final nail in Voldemort’s coffin, though it never really felt like it.

The Manor is imposing, but inconspicuously grand. The grounds are verdant, white peacocks parade across the lawn in the distance, and the stonework shines a cool grey. It looks nothing like the scene of countless murders he knows it to be. Seeing no bell or knocker on the intricate iron gates, he sends his Patronus cantering inside to find Draco.

Moments later, the gates open. He walks up the gravel path and knocks on the door. Draco opens it, slightly out of breath. “Sorry about that, Potter. The Malfoy’s may have fallen low, but I won’t stoop to apparating around my own house like a savage.”

Harry thinks of Fred and George apparating downstairs for breakfast after they got their licence, and the memory of his lost friend stings. “How can you not, with a house this big?”

Draco turns his nose up slightly. “What you don’t understand Harry, is that if you’re important enough, people will wait for you.”

Draco leads him down wide corridors filled with sulky portraits, and Harry finally notices what he’s wearing. Once again his clothes are muggle, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and charcoal trousers, but the biggest difference is that he is covered in dust. The front of his hair and his face are clean, as if he’d given them a cursory wipe before coming to the door, but the back of his head and the rest of his clothes are coated in a fine grey powder.

“So what brings you to my humble abode, O Chosen One?” he says, casually blasting cobwebs from frames and corners as he walks.

What should he tell him? I’ve been having nightmares and now I think something bad is going to happen to you, so I want you to get your fortune told by an old lady I’ve only known a week? That won’t go down well. Harry’s stomach grumbles. In trying to escape Narcissa he’d left without breakfast, and it was well past noon.

Draco laughs lightly. “Lunch, it sounds like. We can stop off at the kitchens on the way.”

The kitchen is down a set of stone stairs, worn to a curve by hundreds of years of feet. Windows line the top foot of one kitchen wall, casting sharp beams of light onto the sturdy wooden table. Draco flicks his wand and lamps flare to life, suspended from the ceiling in clusters.

“I’m surprised you know where the kitchen is, Draco.”

He rolls his eyes. “There’s no house elves anymore, and I live on my own. How did you think I fed myself?”

Harry hoists himself up to sit on the worktop. “A full catering team, obviously.”

“There’s this wonderful new invention, Potter,” says Draco, crossing his arms. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but apparently it’s called a _chair_.”

Harry grins. “Does this ‘chair’ cook lunch, by any chance?”

“I’ll cook you if you’re not careful,” Draco huffs.

Draco makes sandwiches. The bread is thick and raggedly cut but they’re full of chicken, bacon, and mayonnaise. Harry groans in relief, he’d had no idea how hungry he was. Draco gives him an odd look, probably wondering how anyone could be so ill mannered even when eating a sandwich. Sauce drips out of the end of the sandwich and splats onto the polished table. Draco says nothing, but vanishes the puddle with a pointed slash of his wand. It looks like Narcissa passed her intolerance for mess and dirt onto her son.

Draco talks about the renovation he’s being doing to the Manor, but Harry is only half listening. Part of him is wondering how to explain his request, and the other is just watching his long fingers as they move through the air. Harry gets on well enough by nodding along, and making small comments, then Draco begins to lead him towards a part of the Manor he’s never seen before. Down yet another set of stairs, these even narrower and timeworn than the last, is a small room. It looks like the engine room of a ship, if that ship had been built by mad space pirates. The walls and floor are earthen, but small pipes of every metal spread and interlock across them like a lace cage. Snaking along the floor, the pipes feed into a contraption in the middle of the room. It has wheels and knobs and cylinders, and none of them seem to belong to the same machine. Glowing from within, is a soft yellow light. It hums, and the energy coming from it makes the small room hot.

“What the fuck is this?

Draco raises his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “I told you, it’s the house wards. I’ve been fixing them.”

Harry looks at him in shock, reluctantly impressed. “How’d you learn to do that?”

“Trial and error mostly. I’ve always liked fixing things, and after the Vanishing Cabinets-” Draco cuts himself off, looking uncomfortable. “I was trying to fix up the house, clean out the dark magic, but everything kept going back to how it was. Eventually I realised that the house itself had become warped, stained. The wards have been added to hundreds of times over the centuries, and not a small number of them used dark magic. It had already infected the house before the Dark Lord came, but his presence tipped it over the edge.”

“And you fixed it?”

Draco preens. “Very nearly. It’s what I spent most of last year doing, and I’m only just finishing. It’s sort of like a puzzle, if that puzzle was also a bomb. You have to take it apart to get rid of the bits you don’t want, but if you take out the wrong piece at the wrong time it’ll explode.”

A normal person might have stepped back after that statement, but Harry just leans in closer to the machine. Draco joins him, bending over the machine, and runs his finger over the curve of a copper wheel. The warm light illuminates his face and his hair, and his mouth curves into a proud smile. Harry thinks he’d quite like to kiss that smile. Draco meets his eyes, stumbles, steadies himself by resting his hand on something that looks like a silver horn. The horn belches dust, showering Draco in it all over again, and making Harry jump.

Well fuck. Thank god that happened because otherwise Harry Potter might just have kissed Draco Malfoy, and there’s no way Harry Potter wants to kiss Draco Malfoy. It just doesn’t make sense. He looks at Draco, covered in dirt, with the most affronted expression he’s ever seen on someone younger than eighty, and all he wants to do is wipe the grime from his face. Just to be able to touch him.

Fuck. Fuck him there and back again.

-

_‘Draco,_

_Can you meet me tomorrow in Diagon at a place called Granny Lynne’s fortunes? I have to talk to you about something. I know it sounds weird, but it’s important, and I can explain better there. I’m there nearly every morning, if tomorrow’s no good._

_H’_


	12. The Hermit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently writing the trickiest chapter of the whole fic. Please pray for me, send good vibes, sacrifice a golden calf, etc. This however, is one of my favourite (and longest) chapters. Let me know what you think!  
> The Hermit: Introspection, Solitude, Guidance.

_Draco is lying sprawled at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground, expression blank. Harry drops to his knees beside him. “I can’t move,” slurs Draco. “I can’t move.”_

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” He clasps his pale hand, but it’s cold and limp. He squeezes it anyway. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.”_

_He has to be okay. He has to be, because-_

_Clutched in Harry’s other hand is Granny’s pocket watch, but it isn’t purring anymore. The broken chain pools on the cobbles, and starts to move. It starts to hiss. The links break apart, and where the metal snaps, a silver mist leaks out. The mist rises, like steam from a kettle, and begins to form the shape of a cat. Teeth bared, back arched, it pounces._

-

Light scratches as his eyes as Narcissa pulls back the curtains. Harry had overslept. He was late. Narcissa stays facing the window as he grabs clean pants, she snipes at him half-heartedly as he hops around pulling his jeans on, before he runs into the adjoining bathroom to throw water on his face and armpits. Harry looks in the mirror, tugging at his hair, but it’s no better or worse than when he actually tries to tame it.

He apparates outside the shop, and nearly knocks over a member of the crowd that’s gathered there. The jostled woman swings round, ready to tell him off, when her face lights up. “It’s him!”

The crows erupts into noise, vaulting so many questions at him he can’t hear a single one. He pushes through to the door, where he turns round to address them. “Quiet!” he calls, trying to conceal his impatience but still needing to be heard. “Can somebody, and by that I mean one person, please tell me what’s going on?”

A few people at the front look to each other, unsure who to elect as spokesperson, but a teenage girl wrestles her way to the front of the crowd. “We saw the article!” she says, brandishing a copy of today’s _Prophet_ towards him. “Please Mr Harry, can you tell me if I’ll pass my exams?”

He frowns, and tries to channel his inner Hermione. “Um, the more you revise the better you’ll do. It’s up to you how your exams go.”

The girl grins, and the crowd once again explodes into questions.

“Can I borrow that?” he asks, pointing at the newspaper.

She nods and presses it into his hands. He goes into the shop, and expecting the mob to tail him, gets his wand out to lock the door behind him. To his surprise, they make no move to follow him.

“They won’t come in,” says Granny, emerging from the back room. “They didn’t like it when they tried.”

“What did you do?”

She smiles mysteriously. “I have my ways.”

If Harry’s learned anything from the nearly two weeks he’s known her, it’s that Granny has her ways. He sighs with relief, and puts his wand away. Through the tall window, he sees a pale blond head weave its way to the front. Draco emerges looking harried, and walks into the shop.

“So it’s true,” he says, frowning at Harry. “What the Prophet is saying.”

Harry unrolls the newspaper he’s still clutching, and a picture of himself looks back. It’s from yesterday, and shows him leaving the shop, the sign carefully framed in the background. The headline reads: ‘ _We Never Saw It Coming- but the Saviour did!_ ’

He sighs, and looks down at the dog sniffing his trainers. “Hard luck Earl, it looks like they cropped you out.” Harry chucks the paper onto the waiting room table next to the magazines. “I’m not going to read that drivel, you’ll have to sum it up for me.”

“It says you can see the future, and you’re working here. There’s a lot of wild speculation, but that’s about the size of it.”

“Surprisingly accurate, for them.”

Granny looks thunderous. “I imagine one of my clients went and blabbed.”

“To be fair, it’s not like I’ve been hiding that I come here. I just don’t think it’s news.”

Draco scoffs. “It’s you, Harry. It’s always news.”

“Come into the back room, duckies,” suggests Granny. “You’re being ogled.” 

They turn around, and realise that while a good number have dispersed, some have started to press their noses against the glass. Their eyes dart between Harry and Draco, and a with a dawning sense of dread, he realises that this will be in the _Prophet_ too. He can see it now: ‘ _Chosen One and Death Eater Meet Secretly and Nefariously’_ or some such rubbish. They hurry into the back room.

Draco holds his hand out for Granny to shake, looking like he expects to be turned down, but resolutely keeping it there anyway. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms Lynn.”

Granny takes his hand, and instead of shaking it, she turns it over to see his palm. She strokes his knuckles and smiles innocently. “You have very longs thumbs.”

“Yes, I do,” answers Draco, blinking rapidly in disbelief. He turns to Harry. “Now are you going to tell me why I’m here, or am I supposed to see it in the crystal ball?”

Harry sits down in what he’s begun to think of as _his_ purple armchair, and conjures a second seat for Draco. “I’ve been having dreams about you.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, and Harry blushes. Granny smothers a chuckle with a delicate cough, and turns her back to them, going to the counter to put the kettle on. Harry suspects she’s trying to give them an element of privacy.

He swallows. “I mean, I’ve been dreaming that something bad happens to you, and Granny thinks that I might be seeing something that’s going to happen. She gave me this magic tea, and now I’m pretty sure it’s true.”

Draco sits down in the conjured chair, and touches a hand to his temple, before pushing his hair out of his eyes. “You’re a Seer, then, as well as the Chosen One.” There’s no lingering malice when he sighs “You just can’t help being special can you?”

Harry shrugs and smiles apologetically. He’d begun to wonder as well.

“What’s going to happen to me?” asks Draco, fussing with the cuff of his pale blue shirt.

“All I know is that you’re injured, and I don’t know if you’re going to be okay.” He takes a deep breath. “That’s why I wanted you to come here, so Granny can read her Tarot cards and see if you’ll be okay.”

Draco smirks weakly. “So sweet of you to care.”

Harry’s heart clenches like a fist. “Of course I care.”

Granny puts two mugs down on the table. One in front of her, and one in front of Draco. Instead of tea, his drink is almost black, and smells fragrantly of coffee. “You go on and walk that silly dog now, Harry. I’ll take it from here.”

-

After a walk made tiring not by physical exertion, but by the relentless questions of the curious public, Harry returns to the shop. It had been shorter than usual, as he was in a hurry to escape the throng. Low voices still carry from the other room, but the noise of his admirers drowns out the bell. He means to announce himself, but a low murmur cuts him short.

“I don’t why he’s bothering. I deserve whatever happens to me.”

“Maybe the old you did,” soothes Granny. “But not the young man you’ve become.”

Harry shouldn’t be listening to this. He picks up Earl and backs off to sit on the waiting room sofa; he feels a sudden curiosity to see what Celestina Warbeck had revealed about the reason for her third divorce exclusively for _Witch Weekly_ in 1989. Picking up the battered magazine, he settles into the lumpy cushions. A few minutes later, Draco leaves the room looking shaken.

Harry guiltily displaces the sleeping dog from his lap, and stands. “Fancy some lunch?”

Draco shrugs, lip twitching upwards into almost a smile. “Why not?”

Harry holds out his arm, and they disapparate.

“This is not what I expected,” says Draco, looking round his kitchen.

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had been the scene of countless meetings for the Order of the Phoenix, and they all took place around the kitchen table. The wood is dark, with deep gouges sanded over but still visible, like curse marks that couldn’t be fully repaired. There are still dishes in the sink, and Harry sets them cleaning with a twirl of his wand. He always forgets to do it. The light is low, but warm, reflecting off the shiny brass handles that adorn each cupboard.

“What did you expect?” asks Harry, banishing some stray clutter into a draw. Asking him to come for lunch was impulsive. Draco was such a tidy person, and having him see his house without warning will only show him how different they are.

“It’s tasteful.” Draco frowns. “Is this the old Black house?”

“Yeah, Sirius left it to me.”

He starts tracing the counters with his wand absentmindedly. “I used to visit my Great Aunt Walburga here when I was little. I never went in the kitchen though, we always ate in the dining room.”

“Then how did you know it’s the same place?”

He gestures around him. “The wards, of course. They recognise me.”

“How can you tell?” asks Harry, sitting down at the table and indicating for Draco to do the same.

“The more you work with them, the easier they are to recognise. For most people they’re just an energy, a feeling you get when you enter a house. For houses as old as this one, as old as the Manor, they develop a sort of sentience. They react to your presence.” Draco leans back in his chair. “The wards aren’t as dark as when I was here last, but they could do with some work.”

“We did a lot of clearing out when the Order was here, got rid of a lot of nasty stuff.”

Draco nods. “I’d like to talk to your house elf.”

Harry stares at him, bewildered. “I knew you’d changed, but I didn’t realise that much.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It’s just that your elf is likely to know more about your wards than you.”

“Kreacher’s retired. He was too old to keep working.”

Draco raises his eyebrows, but chooses not to comment.

“Besides, I don’t have a ward room like yours, with all the machinery and stuff.”

“Don’t be absurd, Potter. Of course you do.”

“It’s Harry, remember?” he huffs. “And I think I’d know if there was a whole other room in my own house.”

Draco tilts his head. “Not necessarily. Magical houses like these often cut off rooms that are no longer in use, and bring them back when they are needed. This house was empty for years, I imagine it’s half the size it used to be.”

“Can you bring it back, then?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Only the Master of the house, or the house itself can do it. All you have to do is say: ‘ _Revertitur ad me’_ and then whatever room it is you want.”

Harry clears his throat. “ _Revertitur ad me_ …ward room?”

A gust of wind travels through the house, and suddenly the atmosphere feels slightly looser.

“Very good,” nods Draco. “Now we just have to find it.”

After explaining the wards are usually found in the heart of the house, the attic, or the cellar, they set off to find a new door. Guided by the sensation of cold air flowing down towards him, Harry leads Draco upwards. Harry taps his wand to the hatch that leads to the attic, and a ladder unfurls itself. The space is dark, musty, and filled with strange objects.

“ _Lumos_ ,” whispers Harry. At the far end of the room, nestled under oak beams, is a small round door. Almost like a porthole.

“I’m not sure I can fit through that.”

Harry glances at Draco’s long limbs, the way he’s stooping under the sloped roof, and has to agree.

They pick their way through the detritus, careful not to touch anything questionable. As Harry touches the glass handle, the door melts away, and the opening widens. Big enough for two men to squeeze through, if not walk comfortably. Circling his wand, Harry extends the _lumos_ over the new room. Where Malfoy Manor’s wards had given off heat, the Black’s wards are coated in a fine layer of frost. Instead of the twining pipes and sprawling machinery, the objects inside look sharp. Like teeth. Where Draco’s wards had been cobbled together from different metals, everything in here is made from black volcanic glass.

“It’s fascinating,” says Draco, already walking inside. “My family has always been so rigid, so obsessed with appearances, and yet our wards are completely mad. The Blacks have always been unhinged, and yet these are some of the most cohesive and well-structured wards I’ve ever seen.” He looks back at Harry, eyes alight in a way he hasn’t seen in years. “Don’t touch anything unless I say it’s safe. Better yet, just don’t touch anything.”

Harry laughs. “Why don’t I just leave you two alone for a bit. I promised you lunch.”

Draco nods absentmindedly, already conjuring a magnifying glass to study the jagged lines etched into the obsidian walls of the machine. Harry smiles, and heads to the kitchen. He feels like a ham and cheese omelette. Absentmindedly, he thinks Arthur Weasley would have some kind of joke to make about that. ‘ _Doctor Doctor, I feel like a ham and cheese omelette!_ ’ The punchline, however, eludes him.

As he whisks the eggs, he realises he never even made Draco a drink. A few rushed flicks of his wand later and he sends a mug, a pot of tea, a small milk jug, and a sugar bowl that wiggles its way out of the back of the cupboard, floating up to Draco. Harry’s not exactly sure what he’s doing up there, but he seems happy, and that’s enough for him.

Minutes later he sends his Patronus trotting up to fetch Draco for lunch, feeling that he wouldn’t appreciate Harry yelling up the length of the house. He walks into the kitchen with a pleased flush on his cheeks, his hair in his eyes, and a half drunk mug of tea. Harry wants to see that every day, if he can.

-

By that evening, he has his head stuck in Ginny’s fireplace. “Gin, have you got a minute? I think I’m having some kind of mental breakdown.”

Ginny laughs, and motions for him to come through. “Aren’t you always?”

He climbs into her living room and plonks himself down on her squashy sofa. He grabs a red cushion that reminds him of the Gryffindor common room and holds it tightly to his chest. “Either I’m losing my mind, or I want to kiss- Someone I never thought I would want to kiss.”

“You’re not going to tell me who?” she asks, sitting next to him and folding her legs underneath her.

He shakes his head. “Not until I’m sure.”

“And since when has a crush been the end of the world? Sometimes you’re attracted to people you’d never normally think were your type, but it just works. I mean, I liked you and you’re a right ugly bastard.”

Harry whacks her shoulder, and taking a deep breath, decides to deal with one dilemma at a time. “How did you know you like girls? As well as boys, I mean.”

“Well,” shrugs Ginny, “It wasn’t something I really thought about that much until recently. I was so obsessed with you in school. Then I started spending more time with Luna, before she was taken away.” She breaths deeply, and blinks away tears. “When she was gone, I thought about her every day. I was so scared they’d hurt her, or kill her. I didn’t realise until she was gone how much I needed her. After the battle, when I saw her for the first time, I just held her. I hung onto her and I realised I never wanted to let go.”

Harry puts his hand on her knee. As usual, he has no idea what to say in this moment.

Ginny wipes her eyes and shakes her head. “Anyway, I didn’t really think about the fact she was a girl until we were already kissing.”

“You know I’m happy for you, don’t you? For both of you.”

She nods. “So why did you want to know? Is this girl you want to kiss-“ Ginny’s eyes widen. “Wait. It’s a boy, isn’t it?”

His cheeks burn. “Yeah, but I don’t know if I actually want to kiss him. When I first felt it, the room was hot, it made me feel weird. And today…” He trails off. “Maybe I have food poisoning. Maybe I have food poisoning and it’s making my stomach do weird things, and I don’t want to kiss him at all!”

“Maybe you have brain poisoning,” snorts Ginny. “Don’t be stupid Harry.”

He gives her a mutinous look.

“What is it you’re worried about? If you like men and women, that’s great. If you just like men, that’s good too. Your family won’t care, they just want you to be happy.”

Harry thinks back. Before he met Draco again, before the war. He’d always noticed boys. He’d always noticed how tall they were, how they grinned as they let him in on a joke. Everyone always talked about how handsome Lockhart was, so why was it different if he thought so too? Harry had assumed that all boys thought these things, noticed these things, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was just that Draco was the first man to make him feel the way Cho had, Ginny had. Maybe he could have more with Draco.

Harry turns to Ginny, and tries to sound confident. “I think I’m bisexual.”

“Well Harry,” she says, with a wry smile. “Welcome to the club. New members get wine.”

He lets out a nervous giggle, and Ginny waltzes off to the fridge to find a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.


	13. Five of Wands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five of Wands: Conflict, Competition, Tension.

_Draco is lying sprawled at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground, expression blank. Harry drops to his knees beside him. “I can’t move,” slurs Draco. “I can’t move.”_

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” He clasps his pale hand, but it’s cold and limp. Harry squeezes it anyway. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.”_

_He has to be okay. He has to be, because Harry needs him._

_Clutched in Harry’s other hand is Granny’s pocket watch, but it isn’t purring anymore. The broken chain pools on the cobbles, and starts to move. It starts to hiss. The links break apart, and where the metal snaps, a silver mist leaks out. The mist rises, like steam from a kettle, and begins to form the shape of a cat. Teeth bared, back arched, it pounces._

-

It was a leisurely breakfast of tea and toast. Narcissa tried to look adequately stern as he told her stories about her sister Andromeda and Teddy, but smiles broke through her cold exterior. He made it to the shop on time, and had a productive lesson with Granny. All in all, it was the calmest morning he’d had in a long time, but his stomach was churning through all of it. He’d invited Draco for lunch again, after he’d asked to come back and look at the wards with equipment he hadn’t had to hand the last time. Harry had agreed, and now he was bricking it.

The house looks presentable, he's thought out the request he plans to make to Draco, but it isn’t enough. Before, he didn't know how he felt. He didn't realise what the fluttering in his stomach meant. Now he knows he wants to kiss Draco until they forget to breath, and he has no idea how to act around him. Harry feels sure that Draco will be able to tell with one look what he’s thinking, because it’s written all over his face. He’s always been awkward when he likes someone. Grimacing, he thinks about the fiasco with Cho in Madame Puddifoot’s. Why can he never say the right thing?

In the midst of his panic, there are three clear raps on the door. Harry collects himself with a deep breath. Is he a Gryffindor or not? Blind faith and emotional repression are what they do. He opens the door to Draco, who stands a little way back, looking up at the building with curiosity. In his hand is a leather holdall, likely containing the instruments needs to study the wards properly.

“Come in mate,” he says, standing back to let his guest inside. That sounded normal, didn’t it? That sounded like something a friend might say. Harry winces. He’s such a bloody idiot.

Draco nods at him, and looks him up and down as he enters the hall. “What’s up with you? You look all…tidy.” He sniffs. “It’s unnatural.”

Harry groans internally. Without thinking it through, he’d tried to comb his hair earlier, and not dress like such a slob. After worrying about acting strangely and giving himself away, he hadn’t even stopped to think about how strange his neat appearance might seem. It was just that Draco was always so well-dressed. Though Harry would never change who he was for someone else, subconsciously at least, he still wanted to impress him.

He thinks fast. “Granny, you know. She’s been telling me to look after myself better.”

Their eyes lock, and Harry can’t read the emotion in Draco’s eyes. He steps closer, making the inches of height between them seem bigger than they are. Draco reaches out a hand, pauses, and then runs it over and through Harry’s hair. Fighting not to close his eyes to the sensation, he watches in disbelief.

“Better,” says Draco, his voice low. “I’ve insulted that crows-nest many times, but you don’t look right without it.”

He steps away, and Harry can breath again. Of course. Of course it was something so simple as fixing his hair. It just didn’t feel simple to him. Draco didn’t see him that way, had only just stopped hating him, and he didn’t deserve to have his newfound friendliness be misconstrued.

Harry leads him to the Kitchen. “You can’t start without a cup of tea.” He puts the kettle on, turning his back to Draco while he composes himself. “Granny says that there’s nothing worth doing that doesn’t start with a cup of tea.”

Draco hums noncommittally.

“Anyway, I’ve been thinking-”

Draco snorts. “Sorry. It’s just that at one point, I’d have said that thinking must be a new pastime for you. Funny how things change.”

Funny indeed. Harry takes a breath. “I want to hire you to fix the wards. You’ve been looking at them anyway, and I know it’s something you can do because you’ve done it before. Anyway, it just seems important, and it would mean a lot to me if you would.”

“Hire me?” says Draco, his eyebrows inching towards his hairline. “I was going to do it anyway.”

“Really?” says Harry, incredulous. “But it’s so much work. You could do this as a career, if you wanted.”

Draco furrows his brow, and Harry finishes making the tea. He sits down and watches as Draco’s hand hovers over the milk jug and sugar bowl, before adding copious amounts of both. Finally, Draco speaks. “I’ve thought about it, you know. Doing it for a living. But if we’re being realistic, no one’s going to want to hire me.”

Harry’s stomach churns with protective rage. “Why not? How many people can do what you do? It’s nothing I’d even heard of before.”

“It’s rare. I don’t actually believe there’s another person in Britain who repairs wards, currently. It’s something that fell out of use, which is why there’s not as much demand as you might think,” he explains, stirring his tea without clinking it against the porcelain.

“Maybe before the war, but think about now. You said dark magic and objects infect the wards? There’s been a lot of that going about, hasn’t there? And all those old Death Eater houses that have been left to relatives or confiscated by the ministry, won’t they need repairing?”

Draco nods, acquiescing. “Still, I’m not sure that’s enough business to keep things going. And I’m going to need a steady income after most of our family’s assets were seized by the ministry.”

“Well, if you can fix wards, what about making them? You could build them for people.”

“I like the sound of that,” says Draco thoughtfully. “It would be fascinating work. But it still doesn’t mean anyone will hire a Death Eater.”

“Well I am,” points out Harry.

Draco rolls his eyes. “No you’re not. I’ll do it but I won’t take your money, Harry.”

Why not? Did he still feel indebted to Harry? There was the business of him saving him in the room of requirement, and stepping in at his trial. But Harry had almost killed Draco before, and he’d refused to identify him to Bellatrix at the Manor. As far as he’s concerned, they’re even.

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Well,” says Draco thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. “You can do something for me. Would that satisfy your Gryffindor sense of fairness?”

Harry swallows, his thoughts going in an indecent direction. Draco’s voice is teasing, and his mouth slips into a sly little smirk that makes Harry glad he’s already sat down. “Whatever you want.”

Draco’s smile grows even more suggestive, then abruptly dims, his face serious once again. “I still can’t make a corporeal Patronus. I only get mist, if that.”

“You want me to teach you?”

“You taught your little gang of hooligans in fifth year, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” says Harry, huffing in exasperation. “And calling us hooligans makes you sound about a hundred years old, by the way.”

Draco shrugs. “I say what I see.” He drains his mug and stands up. “I’m going to go get started. We can work on the Patronus after, if that’s all right with you?”

He agrees, and Draco sweeps out of the room, leaving Harry flustered and confused.

-

“Show me what you’ve got,” says Harry firmly.

They’re sat together cross-legged on the patterned rug in front of the living room fire. Warmth always helped Harry when he was learning to cast a Patronus. Draco gathers himself, sits up straighter, and casts. A soft bluish-silver cloud begins to pour from his wand, before it stutters, and quickly dies.

“That’s what it always does,” sighs Draco.

“What memory do you think about when you’re casting? If you don’t mind telling me, that is.”

Draco looks down and twirls his wand between his fingers. “When I was very small, and my mother would sing me to sleep.”

“Does it make you happy?”

“It should do,” says Draco. “But I’m not really sure. It definitely used to. Since she died, it makes me feel sad too.”

Harry hums. “Maybe you should try something else. Is there another memory you can think of?”

“Yes,” says Draco, ducking his head to try and hide his smile. “I’m not telling you what it is though.”

“Fair enough,” he shrugs. “Now let’s give it another go.”

This time when Draco murmurs “ _Expecto patronum_ ,” his voice soft but clear, movement comes from inside the cloud. A hint of wings, soaring motion, before the spell falters. Draco grins. “It’s some sort of bird.”

“That’s great,” says Harry, gripping his shoulder. “Now we just keep practicing.”

Sometime later, and they’ve forgotten what they were supposed to be doing, in favour of talking huddled close together. It’s an unseasonably cold night, and the fire and heat of their bodies draw them closer. A cool grey figure drifts through the wall behind them, already speaking.

“Harry, Have you seen Draco? He’s not at-”

Draco and Narcissa lock eyes, and the colour leeches from his face. “Mother?”

Harry had told him about his mother’s ghost, but clearly that was not enough to prepare him for seeing her with his own eyes.

“Draco, darling.” She comes closer, placing a translucent palm over her son’s cheek where he kneels on the floor. Draco shivers with the cold her hand radiates. “You weren’t supposed to see me.”

He raises his own hand, tries to lay it over hers in a familiar gesture, but it passes through to his own skin. He begins to cry. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to cling to a memory, Draco. I want you to live.” Narcissa’s hands moves to stroke over his hair, trembling the whole time.

Draco stands, shuddering as her hands and arms rush through him when she doesn’t pull them back in time. “But you’re not a memory, you’re here now.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” she whispers, shaking her head. She pinches her brow in concentration, and this time when she tries to moves Draco’s hair away from his brimming eyes, it moves with her. “You need to be with the living, or you’ll start to wish you were dead.”

Narcissa wrenches herself away, and almost flies through the wall in her hurry to leave. A breath is punched from Draco’s lungs, not quite a sob, and not quite a shout. He collapses back onto his knees, and Harry rushes forwards. He’d watched the encounter in mute distress, and now he only feels terror. Draco is here, and in pain, and Harry has no idea how to help him. His hands hover over Draco’s shoulders, before pulling him into an embrace. Draco leans in for a moment, burying his face into Harry’s neck, before abruptly shoving Harry backwards. He almost falls onto his back, not expecting the attack.

“Don’t pretend!” he shouts. “Don’t pretend you care when I know you’re only doing it for her. She told you to help me, because of the fucking life debt, but I don’t want you to.” He swallows, and gets to feet, looking down on Harry. “I don’t need your pity, Potter.”

Draco turns to leave. Harry scrambles to his feet, and grabs his wrist, pulling him round to face him. Their noses are so close he can feel their quick, hot breath between them. “I don’t pity you, Draco. Sometimes I wish I was you.”

And it’s true. He might not have thought it in so many words, but he’s envied him in one way or another since he met him. Envied him for his comfort in a world which was once so unfamiliar to Harry. For a mother who sent him chocolates every Friday morning. For knowing his impossible and intricate family tree all the way back to its roots, and all the history and tradition that comes with it. For his freedom. The freedom that comes with knowing who he is, and who he wants to be.

Draco looks into his eyes for a long moment, before shaking his head in wonder and disbelief. “You’re insane, Potter. Even I don’t want to be me.”

He pulls his wrist free of Harry’s grasp, and leaves.


	14. Two of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two of Swords: Decisions, An Impasse, Avoidance.

_Draco is lying sprawled at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground, expression blank. Harry drops to his knees beside him. “I can’t move,” slurs Draco. “I can’t move.”_

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” Kneeling down, he clasps his pale hand, but it’s cold and limp. He squeezes it anyway. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.”_

_He has to be okay. He has to be, because Harry loves him._

_Clutched in Harry’s other hand is Granny’s pocket watch, but it isn’t purring anymore. The broken chain pools on the cobbles, and starts to move. It starts to hiss. The links break apart, and where the metal snaps, a silver mist leaks out. The mist rises, like steam from a kettle, and begins to form the shape of a cat. It turns to face the woman. She’s shocked and pale, watching the scene unfold. Teeth bared, back arched, it pounces._

-

“Narcissa, I need your help,” he entreats as he shoves two slices of seeded loaf into the toaster. “How can I show Draco that I want to be his friend because I like him, and not because you asked me to be? I don’t know him the way I know Ron or Hermione, I don’t know how to make him believe me.”

Narcissa sighs. “Draco has always lashed out when upset. I think what he said to you had more to do with his pride, than anything else. This is easier to fix than you think, Harry.”

“How?”

The toast pops up, making Narcissa jump. Muggle machinery still seems strange and alarming to her. “You need to let him know that you’ve listened to him, that you haven’t been going through the motions of friendship, but have a genuine interest in him as a person.”

‘A genuine interest’ might be more accurate than she realises. Not that he’d ever tell her, or god forbid Draco, that. Still, he’d spent a lot of time talking with Draco last night, and he’d learnt a lot of things he still felt privileged to know. The image of Draco’s original happy memory, his mother singing to him, crystallises in his mind.

“Narcissa, I have to ask you a favour.”

-

Granny Lynn had given him the day off to study the books she’d lent him, and he had them spread over the kitchen table, swapping between them as he felt like it. He’d never been a methodical studier, not like Hermione, he simply follows his train of thought as it leads across the pages and diagrams. Yesterday, Draco had said he would come today to do more work on the wards. That didn’t look likely now.

Sighing, he pulls another book ( _Tarot: What’s in the Cards?)_ towards him. He flips through until a flicker of colour and movement that catches his eye. The Tower is wreathed in painted flames, waves crashing at its base. A man falls down into the sea, appears back up at the window, and falls all over again. It plays in a loop, the tiny features of his face open in a scream. Harry shudders. It reminds him of how he used to replay Dumbledore’s death in his mind, lying awake at night, watching him fall from the tower every time he closed his eyes. If he’d dreamt of it, if he’d seen it coming, could he have stopped it? Why was he seeing the future now, and not before the War? It would have been more helpful then.

Dying must have changed him, like it changed everything else. The horcrux is gone, but he still doesn’t feel entirely himself.

Someone knocks at the door. Harry jumps to his feet, treacherous hope brewing in his chest. _It won’t be him. It won’t be Draco._ He repeats it to himself like a mantra, trying to prepare himself, so the disappointment won’t show on his face as he opens the door. Taking a steadying breath, he turns the handle.

Draco stands on the doorstep looking pale, and unsure of himself.

“You’re here,” says Harry, gaping. Like an idiot. Like a moron.

He shifts from one foot to the other. “I said I would be, but I understand if you want me to leave.”

Harry ushers him indoors, still wrong-footed by his luck. “Why would I want you to leave?”

“Well,” says Draco, following him into the kitchen. “I made an absolute tit of myself last time I was here, in case you didn’t notice.”

“You were upset, you’d just seen your mum. It’s fine.” Harry puts the kettle on reflexively. Tea is always the answer, if not the solution.

“Still, I want to apologise,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said…what I did.”

Harry stares into one of the mugs and jabs the teabag aggressively with a spoon. “Did you believe what you said? Do you really think I want to be friends with you because of the life debt?”

He’s met with a long silence, and he turns round worriedly to face Draco. Draco must have been staring at the back of his head, because now their eyes meet. His features are frozen, but a small smile creeps over his face, seemingly against his will.

“You want to be my friend?” he asks.

“Well, I sort of thought we might be already,” says Harry, turning round to busy himself with the tea; hiding his face from Draco.

Last time he’d had plenty of milk and sugar, and he tries his best to match the shade as exactly as he can to what he remembers. Making someone’s tea right is important, and though he’d left it up to Draco before, he needs an excuse not to turn around for just a few moments longer. When Harry finally brings the mugs to the table, Draco moves to sit across from him, and his little smile grows and takes root in his lips, his nose, his eyes. A small, almost invisible, dimple appears in his cheek. Harry wants to die, just a little bit. Just once more.

Draco takes a sip of his tea. “I think we might be, too.”

Harry can’t remember what Draco’s agreeing to.

After they finish their tea, an inch of cold liquid still left in Draco’s mug, they both get to work. Harry tries to memorise the different types of Tarot cards, and their meanings. _Major Arcana, Minor Arcana. Swords, Cups, Pentacles, Wands._ Draco is back in the attic, tinkering with the wards, his frustrated cursing and crows of satisfaction filtering softly down the stairs from time to time. It feels so comfortable, like things could be easy between them. When Harry is so sick of books he has to take of his glasses and rub at his aching eyes, he decides to go and see what’s happening upstairs for himself. As he ascends, he hears the sound of low voices. Two voices.

Draco chuckles. “Then it seems we both have terrible taste in men.”

“Not terrible, my dear. Merely inconvenient,” answers a woman’s voice.

Terrible taste in men. If Draco has terrible taste in men, then surely that means he’s interested in them? Harry’s heart beats so loudly he doesn’t hear whatever Draco says in reply, and then common sense catches up with him. Apparently there is a strange woman in his attic, and that has to take precedence over obsessing about Draco. Hastily, he climbs the ladder. As he sticks his head through the hatch, he relaxes immediately. Draco has propped a portrait of a woman in an elaborately ruffled dress against a chair, and is sitting cross-legged in front of it.

Harry laughs. “For a minute I thought I was being burgled, and you’d stopped for a friendly chat.”

“Harry,” says Draco, jumping slightly. “I didn’t hear you come up. This is Isla Black, she helped add to the wards.”

“Hello,” says Harry, trying to be polite.

At first glance, Isla Black looks nothing like Draco. Her hair is dark, and falls in soft waves where it isn’t pinned in elaborate braids around her face. She has a button nose, where his is pointed, and a rounded face. Her mouth however, he realises as he comes closer, curves into the exact same shape as Draco’s. Harry feels slightly nauseous that he knows his smile well enough to compare it, it seems like he knows something he shouldn't. Something he hasn't earned yet.

“I was just telling young Draco why I’m up here, and not downstairs with the other paintings,” she says.

Draco glances up at Harry from where he’s sitting. “She’s been burned off the tapestry.”

She sighs. “I married a Muggle. Or at least I assumed I did, when they moved me up here. Bob and I were already planning to elope when I sat for this portrait. My mother told my father to destroy this too, but he didn’t have the heart. ”

“I’m sorry,” says Harry, unsure how to comfort someone who’s been dead a hundred years or more. “I can move you downstairs if you like, so you won’t be on your own.”

Isla shakes her head. “Thank you, but I’d rather stay here for now. At least until the wards are fixed- I want to keep an eye on progress.

“Good,” replies Draco, before turning to Harry. “You have no idea how helpful it is to have someone who had a hand in making the wards here to talk to. Besides, she’s definitely one of my more likeable ancestors.”

-

Draco eventually admits that he’s done as much as he can for today, and they make their way back to the kitchen. Harry rummages through the snack draw and pulls out a half-eaten bar of chocolate. Lupin always gave it to him when teaching Harry to cast a Patronus, and though there were no dementors here, he’s sure it can’t hurt.

He slides it across the table to Draco. “Maybe this will help.”

“I doubt it,” shrugs Draco. “I think the problem runs a little deeper than chocolate can fix.”

Harry sits down next to him, instead of opposite like he usually does. “What do you think the problem is?”

Draco starts absentmindedly snapping off a squares of chocolate, but doesn’t eat them. “I can’t switch it off.”

“Switch what off?”

Draco pauses, looking down at his hands. “The fear. The guilt, the loneliness.”

Harry keeps quiet, waiting for Draco to continue.

“It doesn’t feel like the War’s over,” he says. “It feels like I’m still there, in the middle of it all. How can I focus on a happy memory when I’m holding my wand, and all I can think about is everything else that wand has done? What I’ve done.”

Harry chews his bottom lip, unsure what exactly Draco needs from him. He’s determined to give it to him all the same. “Then use my wand.”

“What?” splutters Draco. “You can’t be serious.”

“Completely,” he says firmly. “I used yours for weeks, turnabout is fair play.” 

He holds out his wand, and turns it so the hilt is facing Draco. Looking between Harry and the wand, Draco shakes his head. Without warning, he takes it from Harry’s loose grip. Draco twirls it between his long fingers, and blue sparks shoot out, fizzling and crackling. He looks down in surprise.

“I didn’t think it would actually respond to me,” he says.

“I’m not surprised,” counters Harry. “Yours always worked well for me.”

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

Harry coughs, an embarrassing flush rising on his cheeks. The words were innocent, but the way Draco said them seemed so suggestive.

“Give it a try now,” suggests Harry. “Remember to focus on the happy memory.”

Draco gazes at the wand in his hands for a moment, and then closes his eyes. “ _Expecto patronum_.”

Icy light bursts from the wand, something huge and soaring. He gets an impression of expansive wings and longs legs, before it fades between one moment and the next.

“Did you see that?” crows Draco, turning to Harry with eyes ablaze. “I'm not sure exactly, but it's either an egret, a heron, or a crane."

"I don't really know birds that well," admits Harry.

"Well, we used to get a lot of different birds at the lake, in the manor grounds. When I was little I used to try and stand on one leg for as long as I could, like the herons did. I’d always fall over.”

Once Draco goes home, Harry gives himself leave to quietly fall apart. Draco probably likes men. Probably. But what else could he have meant by ‘his taste in men’? Either way, it doesn’t mean that Draco’s that much more likely to want him back. It’s not as impossible as he had thought, but in a way that makes it worse. If, _when_ , he finds out for certain that Draco doesn’t want him back, it won’t be because he’s straight. It’ll be because it’s Harry.

He groans pitifully, and goes over to the kitchen window. He opens it wider, and whistles. Less than a minute later, Bunny flies through and lands on his outstretched arm. He dips under her weight, and she nips his thumb.

“Aright, alright, I’ll find a treat for you.”

He rummages through the fridge and finds a leftover sausage, breaking off a piece small enough for her to swallow. He sets her to perch on top of the fridge while he grabs a pen and paper.

_‘Hermione,_

_Are you guys free tonight? I think I need wine and a shoulder to drunkenly cry on. Also, I know you’ve seen the Prophet by now, and you’ve waited long enough to give me a bollocking. Honestly, I’m impressed._

_No worries if you can’t, I know you’re busy._

_Harry’_

The reply is surprisingly swift, and appears to be scrawled across the back of a page of notes on Giant-Centaur relations.

_‘Harry,_

_You know you’re always welcome!!! There’s a bottle of Chianti here with your name on it (bollocking not included)._

_Hermione’_

-

He’s sat on their sofa, his head resting on Hermione’s shoulder, while Ron pontificates on the virtues of the Chudley Cannon’s new seeker. He’s had two glasses of wine and is working on his third, and the others aren’t far behind. They’re loose, laughing, and Harry’s never felt more miserable.

“You know,” points out Hermione. “Xander Pixberry might have more catches to his name, but Camen King hasn’t been around nearly as long, and has nearly as many.”

“Since when were you bothered about Quidditch, Hermione?” asks Harry, looking up at her.

Hermione blushes.

“Since she fancies Camen King, that’s when,” says Ron darkly.

“I don’t! Besides, you don’t need to be jealous Ron, King is definitely gay.”

Harry chokes. “Really?”

“Are you alright?” asks Hermione before continuing. “Yes, it was all over the Prophet. Not that I read it of course, but you know how gossipy the Ministry is.”

“I still don’t like it,” says Ron. “I mean he looks so much like Malfoy- it’s weird.”

Harry chokes again. Hermione takes his glass away from him, laughing.

“I’m not attracted to Malfoy, Ron.”

“Oh god,” moans Harry. His life is over. He has to tell them, and they’re going to die, and then they’re going to kill him. Ergo, his life is over.

“What’s wrong, mate? Are you going to be sick? ‘Cause if you are do me a favour and throw up in that horrible vase Mum got us for Christmas.”

“I’m not going to be sick,” Harry mumbles. “But I am.”

“You are but you aren’t?” repeats Hermione.

Harry sighs, and sits up straight. “I’m not going to be sick. I am attracted to Draco Malfoy.”

Ron burst into laughter, and wipes a tear from his eye. Hermione just looks at him blankly.

“Oh fuck, Harry. I needed that. I haven’t laughed like that in ages.” Ron takes a deep breath, and looks between their serious faces. “Oh fuck, Harry,” he echoes softly.

“I actually think I’m in love with him,” adds Harry.

Hermione grips his shoulder. “Are you sure?”

Harry pauses, and then nods.

“What do you mean you’re in love with him?” asks Ron, leaning forward in his chair. “We are talking about the same person aren’t we?”

“Maybe not. Draco’s changed, he’s really not the same person anymore.”

Hermione frowns. “Where did this come from? I mean, we always thought that you liked…”

“Girls?” finishes Harry. “I do. I just like men as well.”

Hermione launches herself at him, tackling him into a powerful hug, her hair catching in his mouth. “I’m so proud of you. We love you so much, and I hope you know this could never change anything.” She sits back, and cups his face in her hands. “You’re family, and whoever you decide to be with, they’ll be family too.”

“What she said,” affirms Ron, before slowly shaking his head. “But really Harry, did it have to be Malfoy?”


	15. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it folks, the one we've all been waiting for.  
> Death: Endings, Change, Transformation.

_Draco is lying sprawled at his feet. His blond head is faced towards the ground, expression blank. Harry drops to his knees beside him. “I can’t move,” slurs Draco. “I can’t move.”_

_“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” Kneeling down, he clasps his pale hand, but it’s cold and limp. He squeezes it anyway. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.”_

_He has to be okay. He has to be, because Harry loves him. Because he can’t lose him twice in one day._

_Clutched in Harry’s other hand is Granny’s pocket watch, but it isn’t purring anymore. The broken chain pools on the cobbles, and starts to move. It starts to hiss. The links break apart, and where the metal snaps, a silver mist leaks out. The mist rises, like steam from a kettle, and begins to form the shape of a cat. It turns to face the woman. She’s shocked and pale, watching the scene unfold. Teeth bared, back arched, it pounces. It lands on her chest, before sinking in. She gasps._

-

“Granny, I need to ask you a favour,” he says, having returned Earl to her after their walk.

She bends over to pick up the little dog. “I know, duckie. I’ve got the cards out ready for you.” Harry looks at the table, and realises the cards have been placed in front of his chair. He sits down. “I thought it might be better if you tried for yourself,” says Granny. “See what you’ve learned.”

He’s not ready. He came here to ask Granny to look into his love life, like so many of her patrons do. It seems silly, but he doesn’t want to risk anything with Draco. All his Gryffindor bravery has gone out the window, and suddenly he feels like a first year, adding up the letters in their names on a piece of parchment to see if they’re compatible.

“What if I get it wrong?” he asks.

“I’ll help you.”

First, he shuffles the cards. They’re bigger than a pack of playing cards, and his hands feel clumsy. One falls out of the deck. He goes to pick it up again but Granny shakes her head.

“Always read the cards you drop,” she advises. “They have something they want to tell you.”

Harry sets it to one side, and continues shuffling. He’s not sure when it’s supposed to be finished, the book said he was supposed to just feel it, but he doesn’t. Now is as a good a time as any, so he lays the deck face down on the table. It’s a specific question, and he’s not ready to try a full spread, so he uses a trick Granny has shown him. He draws every card, pausing just long enough to glance over them, until he finds The Lovers. Once he does, the illustrated couple moving to kiss each other, he takes the card before it and the card after. He lays them out in front of him. The Star, and The Ace of Cups. The card he dropped was Death.

Harry clears his throat. The Star makes him think of Draco, of the Black family, and their celestial names. The woman on the card is has one foot in the water and one on land, naked under the night sky. It makes him think of Draco and his heron, standing on one leg, trying not to fall over. The book had said The Star means hope, purpose, and renewal.

The Ace of Cups is tricky. Harry’s first thought is of the Goblet of Fire, and being thrust into something he isn’t ready for. His second thought is of the passage he’d read in ‘ _Tarot: What’s in the Cards?_ ’. Harry had lain with his cheek on the page, staring at one passage for what felt like hours, trying to force himself to study. Now he’s thankful, as he tries to remember the exact words. ‘ _The Ace in each suit represents a beginning. The suit of Cups (Sometimes referred to as Goblets, or Chalices, see p.138 for details.) is considered the suit of emotions, and relationships._ ’ Does that mean it could signal the beginning of a relationship?

Death is simpler. Granny has talked about it more than any other card. They had discussed it in relation to the baby in his tea leaves. Endings making way for new beginnings. A transformation.

“Well, you better go and tell him how you feel,” suggests Granny, after Harry tells her what he’s read.

Harry chews his bottom lip. “But what about Death? It can mean endings; what if it means he won’t want to be friends anymore?”

“You dropped it before the reading began, which usually means that there’s something the deck wants you to know, that doesn’t relate to your question.”

Harry nods. “So are the Tarot decks sentient, like portraits?”

“Yes and no,” she sighs. “Portraits capture the memory of a person. Think of it like a house. Houses absorb what you put into them, and develop their own form of sentience from that. Decks gain a life of their own from being read over and over, the energy of their reader bleeding into them over time. Once there’s a base level of thought and feeling, they go their own way. So, more like a child than a house, now I think about it.”

Somewhere in the year since the war ended, Harry had forgotten how to be brave. Courage was one of the things he’d defined himself by, at one time. He was a Gryffindor, and so he was brave. In the only months of his life where there’s been nothing to fight for, nothing to struggle against, he’s gotten out of the habit. Like an unused muscle. It’s time to get it back.

Harry rushes home. He runs for five minutes before he remembers he’s a wizard and apparates. He arrives on his doorstep still out of breath, and tries to comb his dishevelled hair with his fingers. Yesterday he’d given Draco a key, so he could let himself in if he arrived while Harry was still at Granny’s shop. Harry unlocks his door, remembering the shocked look on Draco’s face as he’d handed him the key, trying not to give away what he was thinking. What Harry had wished it meant.

Jogging up the stairs to the attic, he tries to think of what to say. _Hey Draco, I know we’ve only been friends for a week, but I don’t want you to ever leave._ Or _Hi Draco, I know we hated each other for half of our lives and I stalked you for a year, but I’ve just realised I’m in love with you._ Harry climbs through the attic, hearing the low murmur of conversation between Draco and the portrait. The circular door is only open a crack, pale light spilling through. Opening the door, he sees Draco bent over a piece of machinery he’s opened, a magnifying glass giving him one enormous eye. Isla’s portrait says something Harry doesn’t catch through the roaring in his ears, and Draco’s face cracks into a smile.

In the end he doesn’t say anything. Actions always speak louder than words. Harry strides into the room, Draco straightens up as he sees him, his smile growing wider. Cupping the back of his neck in his hand, he brings their faces together. The first press of their lips together is firm, unyielding. Draco opens his mouth in surprise, and it becomes warm and impossibly soft. Draco brings his hands to hold Harry by the top of his arms, and for a few delirious seconds he kisses him back. Draco pushes Harry away, keeping his grip on his arms.

Draco’s eyes are wide as he whispers “We can’t.”

Harry swallows, his breath coming fast, and it takes a moment for the words to sink in. _We can’t._ Of course, he’d known this was coming. What he wasn’t expecting was for it to come after a kiss like that, when he’s already so off balance, when he’d spent a few seconds thinking that _they could_. Harry runs. He flees his own home, like a coward, because being brave hadn’t done him any favours. What was the point of that stupid Tarot reading if it came to this? Standing on his front doorstep, unsure of where to go, he thinks of that ill-fated card reading. He’d obviously done it wrong. Harry isn’t a Seer.

Granny’s shop looks the same as it always does when he apparates outside, determined to tell her that he can’t be her apprentice. Because he’s not a Seer, he’s not ‘special’ like Draco had said, and he’ll only disappoint her. He’s already disappointed himself. Barging into the shop, the bell clangs so hard it falls off the hook. He can hear Earl Grey barking madly.

A blonde woman runs out of the back room, knocking into his shoulder in her hurry to leave. Barely noticing, Harry walks into the room she’d just left, and freezes in the doorway. Granny lies in front of her chair, her head pillowed on her arm, grey hair spilling over her face. Earl sniffs around her, whining softly. Harry throws himself to his knees beside her, and sees the hair over her mouth moving gently with her breath. She’s alive.

Remembering the woman who’d ran out only moments before, he flies to his feet, and out of the shop. Earl will have to look after Granny while he's gone. Surely the attacker must be gone by now, but he has to at least try and catch her.

Only feet away from the entrance, the woman stands half-turned, a look of pure panic in her blue eyes. She pulls out her wand, and points it at Draco Malfoy. _What is he doing here?_ He stands just metres away, his wand already raised, and holding the pocket watch in one hand. In the same split second that Harry draws his own wand and casts _stupefy,_ she slashes her own in a harsh, spiralling movement. Draco doubles over, and falls to the ground.

Harry runs to his side. His blond head is faced towards the ground, expression blank. Harry drops to his knees beside him. For a moment, one moment too long, Harry thinks he’s dead.

“I can’t move,” slurs Draco. “I can’t move.”

“It’s okay,” says Harry. “I’m here.” Kneeling down, he clasps his pale hand, but it’s cold and limp. He squeezes it anyway. “You’re going to be okay, Draco.” If he’s talking, that has to mean he’s okay. He has to be, because Harry loves him. Because he can’t lose him twice in one day.

Clutched in Draco’s free hand is Granny’s pocket watch, but it isn’t purring anymore. The broken chain pools on the cobbles, and starts to move like a tail. It starts to hiss. Harry picks it up, hoping that this strange object somehow has the power to save Draco. The links break apart, and where the metal snaps, a silver mist leaks out. Metal turning so cold it burns his fingers, Harry drops the watch. The mist rises, like steam from a kettle, and begins to form the shape of a cat. The spectre lands on its feet, and turns to face the woman. She’s shocked and pale, watching the scene unfold. She looks younger than before, really not much older than him. Out of her depth.

She begins to back away. Teeth bared, back arched, the cat pounces. It lands on her chest, before sinking in, disappearing into her body. She gasps. Crumples. Her knees hit the ground hard. The woman wheezes, her lungs rattling.

“Stop!” shouts Harry. _Please don’t let anyone die today,_ he thinks. _Not even her._ The cat reappears, stepping delicately out of her back like nothing’s happened. She falls forward, catching herself on her hands, before her arms give out under the weight. Shaking his head, he tries to think. Draco and Granny need a healer. Fast.

Harry takes a settling breath, and thinks of Draco lying on the grass in the orchard. Shading his eyes with his hand, the sun catching his hair alight. His small chuckle, not quite open enough for a laugh. Back in the present, Harry screws his eyes shut and chokes out “ _Expecto patronum_.”

He’s cast this spell so many times, he can see it even before he opens his eyes. The delicate hooves, the branching antlers, the expressive eyes. That is not what he sees now. It flies from his wand, long legs tucked under its white body, its neck a graceful line. A bird. Not his stag, not something that came from him. This is the piece of Draco that has buried it’s way into his heart, and built itself a nest there. These eyes aren’t soft and warm like a deer’s; they’re bright, curious, and slightly sharp. It’s circular flight curves and swoops down to towards him, and he holds out his arm like he would for an owl. It lands, but he doesn’t feel any weight.

He talks fast, trying his best to keep his words clear. “There are three injured people at Granny Lynn’s shop in Diagon Alley, it’s urgent. Please come quickly.”

The heron flies away with his message, and his eyes fall back to Draco where he lies twisted, half on his side. His eyes have closed. The ghostly cat sniffs his face, her whiskers twitching. She rests one paw on his chest, over his heart.

“Can you help him?” asks Harry. It’s a long shot, he’s not even sure what this cat is. A ghost, a Patronus, a memory? But things have been so strange with ghosts lately, he might as well try.

The cat prods at Draco’s chest again, and thinking she’s trying to tell him something, Harry gently rolls Draco onto his back. She hops onto his chest, curls into a ball, and begins to purr. Harry runs his hand over her back- trying to encourage her, trying to comfort himself. He can’t actually touch her, but she’s deathly cold. The heat from his own body leaks into her, fuelling her like coal in a furnace.

The purring starts quietly, but it builds. It grows in volume until he feels like he’s inside the belly of a lion. The ground begins to shake. Harry is getting colder, and the cat impossibly hotter, until his hand is burning where it touches her spectral fur. Draco’s face begins to twitch, his hands flex. The cat dissolves into him. Suddenly, he jolts upright, like waking from a nightmare. Their eyes meet for just an instant, before the black splotches crowd his vision, and Harry loses consciousness.


	16. Wheel of Fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did make you wait fifteen chapters for a kiss. Yes, I did leave you on a cliff-hanger. No, I’m not sorry. Hopefully after this chapter you'll forgive me anyway.  
> Wheel of Fortune: Luck, Destiny, Crossroads.

_Harry is thirteen years old. He takes a moment to think that it’s strange, for him to be thirteen, when just a moment ago he was a grown man. But here he is, thirteen again, with Sirius lying on the hard ground before him. It’s an echo of the scene he’s just left, kneeling over Draco’s body. Now, Dementors swoop down like vultures, drinking from Sirius in turn, until a small bead of light begins to rise from his mouth. It looks like a dust mote, caught in a shaft of moonlight._

_This is the moment where Harry appears, displaced in time, to cast his father’s stag Patronus. He looks expectantly across the lake, the memory peaceful in its certainty._

_On the opposite shore stands Draco, younger than Harry's ever seen him, and balancing on one leg. He falls into the water._

-

When he wakes, Draco is kneeling over him. A voice in his head that sounds a lot like Granny’s says that there’s been enough kneeling over unconscious people for one day, in dreams or reality, and this better be the last of it. He thinks he might mumble something to that effect, because Draco sighs in relief. He sits up. A few feet away the young woman is bound with an _incarcerous_ , and Harry takes a moment to be thankful someone else has dealt with her. He’s also had enough of chasing dark wizards and witches.

“Let’s get you inside,” says Draco. “I need to send for the Aurors, and probably the Healers to be safe, but we can’t just stay out here on the street.”

It’s a quiet corner of the Alley, especially in the middle of a weekday, but even now he can see a few curious onlookers.

“I’ve already called the Healers. Granny might still need them; she’s inside, and she’s hurt.”

Draco pulls Harry up by his hand, and levitates the woman’s struggling body ahead of them. He winds his fingers through Harry’s, not letting go even once he’s standing. They hurry into the shop, the door kicking at the dropped bell where it lies on the floor.

“Granny?” he calls.

The voice is weak, but definitely present. “Here, duckie.” In the back room Granny is settling herself back into her chair, looking shaken but unharmed. “Set her down on the chair, Draco.”

Draco does as instructed, lowering the young woman onto the purple armchair. Earl growls in her direction.

“I think this is yours,” says Draco. He lets go of Harry’s hand to reach into his pocket, taking out the pocket watch out to give to Granny. “I’m sorry it’s broken.”

“How did you know?” she asks, taking it gently.

“When I came to visit you, you kept getting it out and opening and closing it again. I don’t think you even noticed.”

She nods. “Don’t worry about the watch. I’m just glad everyone’s alright.” She turns stern eyebrows onto the young woman. “Including my niece.”

“Your niece?” repeats Harry incredulously.

“Yes, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t call the Aurors. This is a family matter.”

“She nearly killed Draco!” spits Harry.

Granny’s eyes widen in concern.

“I’m fine now,” he says. “Harry healed me.”

Granny opens her mouth to question him, but at the same time the shop door bursts open, once again clanging into the fallen bell.

“We’re back here,” calls Harry.

“Don’t say anything,” hisses Granny, removing the ropes from her niece with a careful motion of her wand and concentrated furrow in her brows.

They begin to unravel, but far too slowly. To his surprise, Draco joins his spell to hers, releasing the woman. Harry remembers what Granny had told him upstairs in her room, about struggling with spells. He wonders what she and Draco had talked about. Two green-robed Healers enter. A plump, stately looking older woman, and an anxious faced girl- probably a trainee given the white bands on the cuffs.

The older Healer casts her eye over the scene, and gives a satisfied nod. “Good, no one’s dying. Now why didn’t you just come to St Mungo’s rather than dragging us out here.”

“In my defence,” says Harry. “At the time two people were unconscious, one couldn’t breathe, and then I collapsed as well.”

“My apologies,” she says. “You seem better now, does anyone still need medical attention?”

“My niece,” says Granny. “Her breathing still sounds wrong.”

The Healer goes over to the young woman where she’s sat in the purple chair, and presses her wand to her chest. The sound of her breathing is amplified, and he hears an unsettling rattle.

“So what happened?” asks the nervous trainee.

Shit. If Granny doesn’t want this going to the Aurors, they can’t tell the truth. But what can he say that will make any sense?

“Potions accident,” says Draco. “It was brewed wrong and we inhaled the fumes. Harry arrived and found us all unconscious. He vanished the cauldron and called St Mungo’s, but he’d inhaled too much leftover gas and passed out himself.”

Bless that clever and beautiful man.

The Healer hums, and addresses Granny’s niece. “I’m going to take you in to the hospital to stay overnight.”

“I’ll come with you,” says Granny firmly.

“But what about-” starts Harry, before cutting himself off. There are so many questions, and at least some of them Granny has the answers to, but he can’t say anything in front of the Healers.

“Tomorrow,” she says, throwing him a set of keys. “Now, lock up for me will you? Earl will be fine on his own for a few hours.”

Harry sighs, and watches as the Healer disapparates with her patient. The trainee offers her arm to Granny, and they side-along together. Draco and Harry are alone. After all the mess that’s happened afterwards, that misjudged kiss seems like weeks ago, but it all comes rushing back to him now.

Harry clears his throat. “I’d better lock up then.”

He gives the dog a pat on the head in goodbye, and makes his way to the door. Draco trails after him, picking up the bell from where it’s rolled across the room and placing it back on the hook. It’s a little dented now. They shuffle into the cool air of the street, and Harry turns the key in the lock. His hand shakes.

Draco frowns. “Are you sure you’re alright? Let me take you home.”

Harry nods, too tired to deny himself something he wants so badly. Draco takes his hand again, and apparates them straight into Harry’s kitchen. Without saying anything he goes over to Harry’s kettle, and with slow and unsure hands, starts to make tea.

Harry pulls out a chair and lowers himself into it with a grunt. “Shouldn’t I be looking after you? You were half dead less than an hour ago.”

“It’s odd, but I’ve never felt better in my life. Whatever it was you did, I’m completely healed. It seemed to really take it out of you, though.”

“It wasn’t me,” mumbles Harry. “It was the cat.”

Draco tilts his head. “You know, I thought I’d hallucinated that.”

“Granny will know what happened,” says Harry through a yawn. “Granny knows everything.”

“It’s impossible for anyone to know everything,” says Draco, putting a big steaming mug of tea in front of Harry. He takes a burning sip. It’s perfect.

Harry hums. She did tell him to tell Draco how he feels, and look how that turned out. “Look, you don’t have to stay and look after me. I’ll be fine.”

“I want to stay,” says Draco, coming to stand in front of Harry. “Can I?”

_Yes_ , thinks Harry. _As long as you want_. Then he can’t think of a reason not to say it, so he does. Draco leans down. Oh Merlin, he's leaning down, is he going to kiss him? Harry cranes his head up at an awkward angle to reach him, he doesn’t want to disturb whatever is happening by standing up. Draco's grey eyes are dark, determined. They should look like granite, but instead they look liquid. Like they could swallow him whole.

Draco pauses, lips just brushing over Harry’s. “Can I?” he repeats, softer this time.

Harry can’t remember deciding to kiss him, can’t remember leaning in, bridging the gap between their lips. He must have done, because one moment he’s standing on the cliff’s edge, and the next he’s falling from it. If their first kiss felt like a question, this one feels like an answer. Draco presses his certainty into Harry’s mouth through the shape of his lips, the fingers sliding into his hair. With Draco angled above him like this, leaning back, he feels off-balance. Like the only thing stopping him from tipping backwards is Draco’s hand on the back of his head, his shoulder. He feels a questioning flick of Draco’s tongue. The answer, again, is yes. He opens his mouth.

Draco pulls him up from the chair so they're face to face and pushes him back against the table. Harry sucks in a breath, and Draco gently bites his bottom lip, before pulling back.

He strokes over Harry’s hair. “Before, when I said we couldn’t, I meant we couldn’t do it _there_.”

“What?”

He huffs a laugh. “We were in a room full of dangerous and temperamental machinery. How was I supposed to kiss you properly?”

“So you do want to kiss me?” asks Harry, still slightly breathless.

Draco raises one eyebrow. “What do you call that, a friendly peck on the cheek?”

“Do you want anything more than that?” he says, voice on the edge of breaking. “Because this isn’t just physical for me.”

Draco kisses him softly, just once. “Good. Because this is everything for me.”

Harry smiles, reaching out to touch Draco’s hair like he’s wanted to ever since that day in the orchard. Ever since the memory he used for his Patronus. The one that belongs to Draco. He closes his eyes and presses his face into Draco’s neck. Another yawn pushes its way to the surface, and Harry tries to fight it down.

“You need to go to bed,” says Draco.

Harry hums in agreement. “Will you stay?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” answers Draco, kissing him on top of the head.

In fact, he’d asked to stay. Those two words, ‘ _Can I?’,_ are scratched into his memory like initials on a tree trunk. Harry hopes they’ll never get tired of saying yes to each other.


	17. The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update 10th December 2020: I’m currently writing a festive sequel, so if you enjoyed this keep your eyes tuned and your ears peeled!  
> -  
> Phew. That's the last proper chapter, and so my first ever fanfic is basically done! I am open to feedback, but if you're going to criticise please be constructive. I'm posting this today because I have to get my laptop fixed tomorrow, and I didn't want to leave you guys hanging!  
> The World: Achievement, Fulfillment, Completion.

For the first time in weeks, Harry doesn’t dream. They lay curled towards each other like brackets, Draco’s pale head only just poking out from under the covers. They only slept last night. Draco had conjured himself a toothbrush, and Harry had given him some pyjamas to wear. He usually just slept in his boxers so they were practically new, but Draco’s wrists and ankles stuck out awkwardly. It was adorable.

As he adjusts to his surroundings, blinking open his eyes, he sees a faint outline standing over Draco. The curtains are still closed, and the light is soft, but he sees Narcissa’s hand tracing over her son’s face. She’s more transparent than she’s ever been; like a bubble in glass, only visible from the way it disrupts the view. She whispers something Harry can barely catch, though she could have been trying to shout. _Sleep now._ And then she fades away.

Harry doesn’t wake him, there’s nothing they can do now. So he sleeps.

This time, Draco wakes first. They get ready for the day in easy silence, broken over by mutterings over toast, and tea, and toothbrushes. They don’t ask each other about yesterday’s events- they know they’re not the ones with the answers.

Aside from the dent in the bell, Granny’s shop looks like nothing has changed. Except for the woman sat in Harry’s purple armchair. He glares, pettily conjuring two more, identical chairs. First she stuns Granny, then she tries to steal her most treasured possession, and finally she curses Draco. No. Finally, she steals his chair. She better have a good explanation.

Granny thuds three mugs of tea and one cup of coffee onto the table, like a judge with a gavel. Harry watches curiously as Draco reaches for the lone coffee cup. Earl winds round his ankles like a cat, before hopping onto his lip.

Granny clears her throat. “I suppose you want an explanation.”

They nod, but don’t yet speak. Harry strokes Earl’s ears like a child with a comfort blanket, Draco’s spine is stiff, and Granny’s niece ducks her head guiltily.

“I can only explain what happened before you arrived, after that we’ll need to piece it together between us.” Granny sighs. “After I left my family, taking only the pocket watch I’d given my brother, my family disowned me. They told everyone I’d died with him. They even put up a headstone, over an empty grave.”

Her niece lays her hand over Granny’s where it rests on the table, and the tired old woman takes a deep breath before continuing. “My mother died, and some years later my father remarried. He had a daughter, my half-sister, and never told her the truth about me. All he told her was that a pocket watch had been stolen from her brother’s coffin, and they had never caught the thief. That sister is Aisling here’s mother.”

“I heard that story so many times growing up,” breathes Aisling. “Grandpa would describe the watch to me, tell me how it was a family heirloom stolen by a graverobber, and that one day I would find it.”

Granny smiles sadly. “And you did find it.”

“I saw the article in the _Prophet_ , about you working here, Harry. I thought a Seer might be able to help me find the watch, put my Grandpa’s memory to rest. I made an appointment with Granny,” she says, before nodding towards Draco. “It’s like you said yesterday. Granny opens and closes the watch all the time, without even noticing. It’s so distinctive, a purring pocket watch, and I knew it was fate.”

“So,” continues Granny. “She tried to tell me that the watch was a family heirloom, and that whoever had sold it to me had no right to it. She tried to buy it from me. I explained that I had made it for my brother, who then left it to me in his will.”

Aisling licks her lips. “I asked what her brother was called, and she said Rowan. That was my uncle’s name. I accused her of lying, of stealing the watch.”

“I tried to explain, but Aisling wasn’t ready to hear it.”

“I stunned her,” sobs Aisling, “And took the watch. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, I just wanted to take back what was ours. To make my Grandpa proud.”

“Then why did you hurt Draco?” interrupts Harry.

“I didn’t think. The only thing I knew about him was that he was a Death Eater, and he was casting something at me. I didn’t know it was just an _accio_ \- I panicked.” She looks up at Draco again. “I truly am sorry. Granny’s told me about you, about how you’ve changed.”

“I understand,” says Draco. “I wouldn’t say I’m happy about it, but I understand. Fear can make us do terrible things.”

Harry thinks of curses cast in a flooded bathroom, and grits his jaw. Draco has scars from a spells Harry cast in panic, so he can’t exactly condemn Aisling for the same. If Draco can forgive, then so can he.

“But what about the cat?” asks Harry. “What was all that about?”

“Now I can only speculate about that,” says Granny. “But I’d like to hear your side of things before I do.”

Harry recounts what he can remember, from finding Granny on the floor to blacking out. She listens intently.

“I dare say if you studied every book ever written, you would not find an event just like this one. The circumstances are so unique,” she says.

_Merlin,_ thinks Harry. _She sounds so much like Dumbledore_.

“I told you I used the memory of my brother’s cat to make the watch purr, didn’t I? Well, ghosts have become untethered, are beginning to interact with the living world, and seem especially drawn to you,” she says to Harry.

“But a memory can’t be a ghost, can it?”

“What are ghosts if not a memory? What is a person?” asks Granny. “We are the product of our experiences, each moment deciding the next.”

Harry pauses, measuring his words. “Tom Riddle’s diary had a piece of his soul in it, it came out and spoke to me. He described himself as a memory.”

“Wait,” interjects Draco. “Even if the memory of a cat somehow became a ghost, that doesn’t explain how it healed me.”

Granny sips her tea. “Did you know a cat’s purr has a healing, soothing property? Science says it’s something to do with vibrations, but you can’t deny the element of companionship, the restorative power of just being there together.”

“A purr can’t heal someone from that,” Aisling points out. “But I saw what was happening. It was like something was flowing from Harry into the cat, powering it.”

“In the end, the facts are these,” says Granny. “One: our memories are powerful enough to influence the present. Two: love can be used to save someone from certain death, as happened to Harry as a baby. Three: Harry has some power over the dead, the limits of which we don’t yet know. From there, we can only draw our own conclusions.”

-

Harry and Draco once again return to Grimmauld Place together. Instead of heading to the kitchen like they normally would, he leads Draco into the loving room. Going over to the stack of records, he pulls out one with a cover spelled blank. Originally it had been a Kate Bush track, but her wailing had unsettled him. He hands it to Draco.

“I want to give you this,” he says. “Your mum helped me make it.”

Draco takes it carefully, and slides the shiny black record out of the sleeve. “What do you mean?”

“You told me about your happy memory, of your mum singing to you. I don’t know why I thought of it, maybe because using this record player makes me feel connected to my own parents, but I asked your mum to sing the lullaby to me. Then I put the memory into the record.”

“How does it work?” asks Draco, his face betraying no emotion.

Harry fidgets. “Place it onto the deck, then lower the needle.”

Draco does so, and the sound of Narcissa’s song fills the room. Her voice is low, with a slight wavering quality. The words wash over them, both stirring and soothing something inside him. _Sleep now, tired star._ Draco’s breath hitches, his eyes welling with tears.

“I’m sorry,” says Harry. “It was a bad idea. I should have known it would just make you sad.”

Draco shakes his head and pulls their foreheads together. “It’s not sad,” he whispers. “It’s perfect.”

The kiss is shaky and full of tears, but Draco’s mouth curves into a smile against his. Pulling back, Draco stands to his full height, and speaks clear and low. “ _Expecto patronum.”_

The bird explodes from his wand, and Harry can almost feel the ripples of wind the wings create, illustrated by waves of light in the air. It circles the room several times, searching for somewhere to land, before it perches on the record player. It lifts one leg.

“A heron,” decides Draco. “Definitely a heron.”

Draco extends one long finger to trace over the crest of feathers on the bird’s head, his face illuminated with blue and silver. He looks like some forgotten god, ruling among the stars. Harry loves him so much he temporarily forgets how to feel anything, think of anything, else.

So he kisses him again. And he doesn’t intend to stop. Draco seems to agree, because he wraps one arm around his back, puts one hand at his waist, and holds him so tightly he might burst. Distantly, Harry recognises it’s good to feel like he doesn’t have to be strong. He can be, but he doesn’t have to be. He lets Draco take the lead, pushing him back onto the sofa.

Draco’s mouth moves down towards his neck, thumb sliding underneath the collar of his t-shirt. Harry takes advantage of their new position to dance kisses over Draco’s face. Along his jaw, up the line of his cheekbone, over the soft skin of his temple. The kisses are almost too tender, too innocent for how heated things have become, but Harry doesn’t care. Draco doesn’t seem to mind either, because his hand traces a similar path over Harry’s face. He reaches the scar, and touches it so lightly it tickles.

Harry grabs his hand, moving it away from his face, and kisses his knuckles. Their hands look so good together, warm and cold contrasted. Suddenly Harry wishes he could stand back, out of his body, and watch them. But then, he wouldn’t be able to look Draco in the eye, and see how full of need they are.

He whispers, scared to break out of the scene they’ve painted themselves into. “Do you want to go upstairs?”

If they’re going to do this, for the first time, it’s not happening on a sofa. Draco breathes his answer, so quiet Harry mostly reads it on his lips. Harry apparates them straight to the bedroom; he doesn’t want to wait any longer. They collapse onto the bed together, and Harry pulls Draco to lie on top of him. He wants to pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist, wants to shut it out and fill the space with Draco.

Draco makes a soft, helpless noise, and presses his leg between Harry’s thighs. “Is this okay?” he asks.

Harry nods, and threads his fingers into Draco’s hair, using the leverage to pull their mouths back together. They move together, Harry pressing up as Draco grinds down. He can feel Draco hard against his leg. He moves his hand to the buttons of Draco’s shirt. “Can I?”

Draco moves to help him, undoing the buttons faster than Harry’s shaking fingers. His shirt hangs off his shoulders, but their pressed to close together. Then his hands go to Harry’s stomach, the touch to his sensitive skin making him jolt upwards.

Draco rubs circles into Harry’s hip. “Can I?”

Those are Harry’s two favourite words. In fact they might be the only words he knows. He nods, and Draco leans back to pull at the hem of Harry’s t-shirt. The afternoon light shows Draco’s chest in excruciating detail, highlighting the thin white lines that scratch into his torso like claw marks. Harry grab’s his wrists to stop him.

Draco frowns, and drops the fabric bunched in his hands. “What’s wrong?”

Harry reaches out to touch the scars.

Draco sighs, and guides Harry’s hand up to his mouth to kiss his palm. “Don’t let your hero complex get in the way, Harry.”

“I was so stupid,” insists Harry, chewing his lip.

Draco smirks. “Well, if you want to make it up to me…” He returns to his task, pulling Harry’s shirt up and over his head. “That’s better.”

Not to be outdone, Harry tugs Draco’s shirt the rest of the way off, and pulls him back on top of him. They let their bodies take the lead from there, pushing and pulling in time, until they can only gasp into each other’s mouths. Noise keeps escaping on his every outward breath, and suddenly his fingernails are digging into Draco’s shoulders as Harry comes. Draco’s eyes are half-lidded as he mumbles sweet nonsense into Harry’s neck. He runs his fingers through Draco’s hair until he finally stills as well.

Draco suddenly becomes incredibly heavy where he’s lying on top of him, and Harry shifts them until they’re facing each other. Draco kisses Harry, mouth closed but firm, then twice more in quick succession as if he can’t get his fill. He reaches for his discarded wand, and casts a cleaning charm over them both. Harry sighs in relief. Coming in your trousers is never comfortable.

They just look at each other for a long stretch of time, Harry trying to tell him everything he feels with his eyes. Hoping he can read what Draco’s saying with his. He can’t be sure Draco can hear what he’s trying to say, and he needs to hear it, because the longer Harry goes without saying it the more it feels like a secret.

So he says “I love you.”

Draco blinks, and pushes himself up on his elbow to face Harry. “No you don’t.”

The peace is broken.

“What do you mean ‘I don’t’? You don’t know that.”

Draco frowns. “I can barely understand how you can want me at all, let alone love me. I know you’re stupidly selfless sometimes Harry, but you don’t have to say you love me because you think I want to hear it.”

“Are you saying you don’t love me, then? Because I know this is fast, but it’s not like we haven’t known each other for ten years.”

“How is _that_ what you took from this?” asks Draco incredulously. “Of course that’s not what I’m saying. In the past week I’ve drunk more cups of tea than I have in my life, just because you made them.”

“Why?”

Draco sighs. “I hate tea. But I love you.”

Harry’s heart turns a hundred and eighty degrees in his chest. He sits up, grabs his wand from the bedside table, and casts his Patronus. The heron is not identical to the one Draco cast. Draco’s crest of feathers was neat, like a crown. Harry’s looks ruffled, like it’s just been in a fight and it might get in another one. It lands on the bedpost.

“Well I love you too,” says Harry firmly, crossing his arms. “So there.”

Draco laughs, shaking his head in wonder. “I didn’t even know it was a competition, but you always have to win, don’t you?”

“And you always have to make everything into an argument,” counters Harry.

“But you love me anyway,” confirms Draco with a rueful smile, eyes still wide in disbelief.

“Yeah,” says Harry. “I love you anyway.


	18. The Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to Dia3012 for all your help, and to everyone who commented and left kudos for giving me the motivation to finish this! I was too nervous to write fanfic for years, but I'm so glad I finally did. It was especially fun to put my Tarot skills to use.  
> This chapter is a lullaby a wrote when I was imagining what Narcissa might sing to Draco. If you guys are interested I might make a recording and link to it here.  
> If you want to chat I'm @moss-on-a-log on tumblr!  
> The Star: Hope, Renewal, Spirituality.

**Sleep Now: A Celestial Lullaby**

_You turn the dew to strings of pearls_

_As you land upon the frost_

_You stay awhile among the fog_

_But forget to burn it off_

_Sleep now, winter sun_

_The rest will make you stronger_

_Sleep now, pale sun_

_For just a little longer_

_Lovers lie entwined under your light_

_You try to keep it soft but_

_There’s a bridge you cannot cross_

_Your voice wanders and is lost_

_Sleep now, quiet moon_

_They will return tomorrow_

_Sleep now, silver moon_

_Don’t linger in your sorrow_

_You jewel that flickers in the sky_

_Like a yellow hummingbird_

_You spin and flash and spend your light_

_Give your beauty to the world_

_Sleep now, golden star_

_You can fly another night_

_Sleep now, tired star_

_Dream of something warm and bright_

_Sleep now, sleep now…_


End file.
